Grievous Losses
by LuteofLorien
Summary: 'Victory…with grievous losses.' The War in the North is over but the personal battle is only just beginning for Legolas and Gimli as they learn of the trauma inflicted on their homes and loved ones in their absence. The story of how they support each other through this, and how the Fellowship in turn supports them both.
1. The Waterworks of Erebor

_A/N Hey folks! Thanks so much to everyone for your lovely feedback on 'Dear Cel', it is much appreciated and you have all encouraged me greatly in my writing. I'm back to writing about Legolas and Gimli for this one, just can't seem to keep away from these two! (There is another Elrond one-shot in the works though, and I've already made myself cry once so be prepared!) Back to the current fic, this one is about how our favourite Elf and Dwarf respond to the tidings from their respective homelands, and as such my one-shot_ _'News'_ _could be considered a prequel, although both pieces absolutely stand alone. I will warn you now, as you may have gathered from the title, I have been rather mean in the things I am having them deal with. I explore the fact that so often in war, there is pain even for the victors; the Duke of Wellington supposedly said that 'next to a battle lost, the saddest thing is a battle won,' which I think I had in the back of my head whilst writing this. This will be 6 or 7 chapters long, and I'll be updating weekly as I'm still working on the final chapters and I want to stick to a consistent schedule. Hope you enjoy, and whether you do or not, please tell me what you think!_

 _Huge thanks as always to my incredible beta Ink Stained Quill, I am very grateful for your ability to summarise beautifully in a few sentences what I've been awkwardly getting at for paragraphs. It's wonderful to have you with me on this fic and I'm very glad (and amazed, quite frankly!) that you haven't got bored of me yet! :-)_

 _ **Disclaimer: This beautiful, complex world in which there are battles in our heroes' homelands that only get a brief mention in the Appendices? All Professor Tolkien's, not mine.**_

 **Chapter One: The Waterworks of Erebor**

Gimli headed to the library in the Fellowship's house in Minas Tirith in search of some peace.

He did not find it.

The Elf was pacing, and that was an invariably ominous happening. _And I thought I'd had enough contention with difficult and dangerous opponents for a lifetime,_ Gimli grumbled to himself _._ He entered warily, but Legolas left his presence unacknowledged. The Elf was scrutinising a scroll of parchment which he held in front of him as he paced, maintaining his repetitive path back and forth in front of the window, his feet apparently functioning without the intervention of his conscious mind. Gimli decided to give his friend a chance to approach him of his own volition before pointing out this clearly distracted behaviour, so he settled down in one of the armchairs to read for a while. He did his best to ignore the silently stalking figure and attempted to force himself to concentrate on the tome in front of him. However, when he realised that he had read the same page five times without taking any of it in, he decided to intervene.

'Laddie, you'll wear a hole in the floor at that rate.'

Without breaking his stride, Legolas retorted, 'I thought that even as a Dwarf you could not be so ignorant as to believe such a thing possible for an Elf.'

Gimli realised that he was being baited, and contented himself with responding quite mildly,

'Would you like to tell me why you're attempting it then?'

'Not particularly, no.'

'So it has nothing to do with that scroll you're staring at as though it were about to attack you?'

'It does not concern you.'

'Well, it is clearly causing you concern, and therefore it concerns me deeply.'

Legolas halted abruptly and muttered something under his breath in Sindarin, and though Gimli did not understand it, he was certain that it was not anything polite. Seeing Legolas' murderous expression, Gimli quickly changed tactics.

'Alright,' he said, attempting to sound conciliatory, 'you clearly need some time to think about whatever it is alone. I'll leave you to it. But you are not carrying whatever this is by yourself indefinitely, you hear me? I shall be walking the city at two hours after noon. I expect your company then.'

He closed the book with a thud and a plume of dust and left the room.

At precisely two hours after noon, Legolas joined Gimli in the hallway. He gave no sign of greeting apart from a nod, and they left the house in silence. Gimli was not surprised by this. The more rational side of Legolas had apparently acknowledged his need for Gimli's support, and so he had come at the specified time. That, however, did not mean that the rest of him had to like admitting to being vulnerable, and he was making this abundantly clear by his silence. Or perhaps that was uncharitable. Perhaps it was simply that he had no idea how to begin. Either way, Gimli did not wish to repeat his earlier mistake and press Legolas into talking about it until he felt ready, so he drew on the patience of his kind and contented himself with taking mental note of all the areas of the stonework that needed improving as they walked. A good team of Dwarves could have those houses habitable again in four days, maybe five, he noted absently. That wall over there, however, had only ever been a patchy job, probably a hastily constructed temporary defence from the last days of the war, and was crying out for demolition. This guard tower was salvageable by craftsmen of the right calibre. That meeting hall had been a fair building, once, but would need some serious work to strengthen it after the damage to its walls.

'It was a missive from home,' came a voice from beside him.

Gimli was yanked abruptly from his musings on the stonework, and everything fell into place. Based on Legolas' behaviour so far, Gimli felt the icy hand of fear clench around his heart and surprised himself in realising that he was almost as anxious about the fate of Legolas' home as that of his own. He waited to see if any more information would be forthcoming, but when it was not he prompted gently,

'And?'

'Victory… with grievous losses.'

Gimli studied him for a moment as they walked. His face was, as always, a mask of chiselled impassivity but even though his eyes were resolutely staring forwards, away from Gimli, the Dwarf could see that within them, a maelstrom of emotion was being ruthlessly held in check.

'And you're not sure precisely how you feel about that, are you?'

Legolas suddenly turned those pools of warring emotions onto Gimli and he had to suppress a gasp at their intensity.

'You surmise correctly, Gimli. Since the news came I have been alternating between feeling everything at once and feeling nothing at all. One moment I am feeling elation, devastation, pride, guilt, grief, homesickness, anxiety, relief, all at the same time, which I was expecting to a certain extent. The next, that missive is just black marks on parchment which has no relevance to my life, though I have a nagging feeling that somehow, it should. And that, I was not expecting. It is… disconcerting.'

Used to his friend's ways by now, Gimli did not miss the inclusion of 'guilt' in Legolas' list of emotions but decided that sorting out whatever tangle of self-recrimination the Elf had invented this time would have to wait until the shock of this news was blunted a little.

'It sounds it, laddie. And this is a 'feeling all of it' moment, from the looks of it.'

'Aye.' Legolas turned away abruptly and walked swiftly to a parapet which afforded a view over the Pelennor. He rested his hands on it and gripped it hard, as if he were holding himself steady against the buffeting of a strong wind, even though the day was calm. Gimli joined him and together they looked out over the ruins of the Pelennor. The corpses had been cleared, but beyond that, it was a ravaged wasteland, scarred with large swathes of torn up and burned land. It would take a long time to heal. Gimli's stomach twisted as he realised what this sight might suggest to his friend's mind, but he could do little to change it now. Legolas had clearly noticed their view as well, for he spoke up softly, his knuckles whitened against the stone of the wall.

'The missive was vague about it, but reading between the lines, it sounds like…like there was fire.'

Gimli had teased his friend mercilessly about all things to do with his Wood-elven love of trees, his claims to sense their hearts, his songs to them and about them, his ability to be refreshed simply by their presence. Only now did he realise that this bond with the trees was far more than a quirk, and that perhaps Legolas' 'grievous losses' in this battle included friends other than elves. He was suddenly assailed by a nightmarish vision of Erebor, the natural cave structures they had shaped and honed since their return crumbling and collapsing before the Enemy's instruments of destruction, the stone itself crying out in distress at its ruin. He felt then that he understood all too well what Legolas must be feeling, and for a moment was nearly overwhelmed by his anxiety for his own home, still having heard nothing. He fought to contain this and bring himself back to the problem of Legolas' vision of Mirkwood burning, which for all Gimli's playful scorn of the place, was terrible enough.

'I'm sorry, lad,' was all he could think to say, but he meant it, and Legolas knew that. Legolas' hands slowly lost their clenched rigour against the wall and they began to tremble very slightly. Gimli followed his gaze to a large streak of scorched ground and concluded that Legolas had been contemplating it for quite long enough. He spied a nearby bench outside an old guardhouse in reasonably good shape and suggested that they sit, as a way of stopping him staring at that burned land. Legolas, however, misinterpreted this and snapped back a little too quickly,

'Receiving significant news does not make me an invalid. I am perfectly able to stand.'

Gimli had not doubted this before, but the renewed trembling of his hands and the defensive response only served to increase his worry. Wisely though, he did not inform Legolas of this and said instead,

'Of course you are. Just thought it might make it easier to talk, that's all.'

Legolas eyed him suspiciously but eventually followed Gimli over to the bench, tearing his eyes away from the battle-scarred land before him. Once they were seated, the trembling ceased, but in its place a stillness which seemed unnatural even for an Elf flowed in. Legolas seemed to retreat into himself, his eyes which had burned with emotion just minutes ago now shuttered and closed off, and he was silent again for a long time. Waiting once more, Gimli amused himself by mentally assigning the craftsmen he knew in Erebor to the places in the city which needed repair. He stopped himself sharply when it hit him. He had no idea how many of those craftsmen were still alive. He had no idea if Erebor itself had fallen before the Ring was destroyed. His pride protested vigorously at that thought, telling him that he knew that the strength of his kin and their mountain home would not fail. But the fact remained. It could have happened. And still he did not know.

'Three close friends died.'

Once again, Gimli was pulled from his own reflections by a sudden revelation from his previously silent shadow. The voice, as it continued, had a dead quality to it, neutral, a soldier making his report.

'Captains, all of them. We'd known each other I was an elfling. Both my brothers took minor injuries but will recover. My closest friend at home survives but lost his right hand in the battle. I had sensed something amiss in our bond so that was not a complete surprise. Another friend was rescued from Dol Guldur, where he'd been since Gollum's escape. He will either fade or sail due to what he's been through but they don't yet know which. They're the only names I have received thus far. The forces of Dol Guldur made significant advances but our king gathered the entirety of our force and pushed them back, and that meant grievous losses for us, but it was successful in the end. Then the Lórien elves came up from the South and destroyed Dol Guldur completely. There are still pockets of evil creatures in the woods, but they are gradually being rooted out by the remainder of our army, a mission which may yet take many months-'

'Legolas.' Gimli reached for his friend's arm, unable to take any more of that dead, eerily detached voice reeling all of this off as if it were no more than a routine intelligence report. 'Stop this, please. Just stop. Breathe.'

Legolas took a deep, shuddering breath.

And then he crumbled.

That was the only word which Gimli felt could appropriately describe what happened next. The impassivity which had descended over Legolas like a protective shield shattered at Gimli's gentle touch and voice, leaving his friend defenceless against the onslaught of emotion. He had been sitting tall and straight, hands folded in his lap, chin jutting out proudly, every inch the impartial messenger doing his duty of passing on the news. But in a slow, terrible kind of collapse, everything holding him upright seemed to suddenly give way, his statuesque bearing drained away from him, he pitched forwards, caught his head in his hands and began to weep.

Even after everything they had been through- the horrors of Moria, Helm's Deep and the Black Gate, the searing grief of Gandalf's fall and then Boromir's, the awful, crushing despair at seeing Frodo's mithril shirt brandished by the Mouth of Sauron- Gimli had never once seen Legolas cry. It felt _wrong_ , somehow, an impossible occurrence, as if Aragorn had suddenly announced he didn't want his kingdom anyway and was giving it up to learn pottery. Legolas' grief for Gandalf had been a quiet thing, easily mistaken for indifference until you saw that terrible look in his eyes. But it was not simply grief Legolas was experiencing now. It was the news that the fight which his life had revolved around for centuries was finally over and that three of those friends who had fought it with him had not lived to see it done. And perhaps it was this, this hurricane of not knowing what to feel, which finally overwhelmed him.

'Oh Legolas,' Gimli breathed.

After an initial moment frozen in stunned horror, he instinctively threw his arms around Legolas, thinking only a moment later that perhaps he should have had been more cautious of the Elf's pride. Legolas made no protest, though, and seemed barely aware of anything apart from his spectacularly convulsive sobs. It seemed that once he had let himself go, there was no holding back the flood, so all Gimli could do was weather it with him. He tentatively reached to prise away Legolas' hands away from where they clutched his head, and when he met with no resistance he turned his friend around to face him, and then brought him closer so he could bury his face in Gimli's shoulder. With his pride thoroughly forgotten amidst the tempest he was experiencing, Legolas instinctively returned Gimli's embrace, clinging to him desperately as if he were an anchor.

Gimli gently rubbed Legolas' back in an effort to calm him, beginning to be genuinely worried by the strength behind those fierce sobs and wondering if the Elf could injure himself with the force of them. He felt that at this point he should probably be murmuring soothing words to his stricken friend but found himself at a loss for what to say. He caught the instinctive 'it's alright,' on the tip of his tongue and stopped himself saying it, because 'alright' was a patently inadequate adjective for this situation. So mostly he was silent, apart from the occasional 'easy, lad' after a particularly violent cry, or a 'just let it all out, that's it,' or an 'I'm right here, laddie.' When he started to say, 'I know, I know' the words stuck in his throat, as his treacherous mind whispered to him that, no, he didn't know, but perhaps he would soon. Perhaps he would when they heard from Erebor. He firmly reminded himself that he could do nothing by fretting over his own news now, but he could help his friend through his.

It seemed to go on for an age. They were in a quiet corner of the city, but there were still a few startled passers-by who stopped and stared when they saw two of their war heroes thus. Mercifully, Legolas was too distracted to notice them, but Gimli glowered at them over his friend's shoulder, silently daring them to pass judgement, and they shut their open mouths and went on their way. At last Legolas' sobs became less tempestuous, and it was only when he loosened his hold and began to pull away that Gimli realised how crushing it had been. He would probably be sporting bruises tomorrow from where the Elf had clung to him. He tried not to wince as they pulled away from each other, which proved a slightly complicated business as Legolas' hair had become tangled in Gimli's beard. Both gave a slightly shaky laugh as they realised this and extricated themselves. Gimli wordlessly offered Legolas a handkerchief- there had been little point in trying to stem the intense weeping earlier- and waited for him to cry himself out, one hand still resting on his upper arm in mute support. Legolas gratefully accepted Gimli's waterskin once he had finished. For a moment there was calm, just Legolas' breathing returning to its usual elvish imperceptibly and Gimli watching his friend with love and concern writ large in his eyes.

Gimli tried not think about Legolas' age too much in general, since being aware that his friend was centuries his senior only gave him a headache when he thought about it for too long. But he was aware that Legolas was considered young among his people, although usually the Elf's confident and assured demeanour made this easy to forget. This piece of information came back to Gimli with a sudden jolt, however, as Legolas' uncharacteristic vulnerability reminded him that his friend was not simply a wise Elda with centuries of battle experience. He was also, and especially right now, a young person who had seen and lost far too much. Gimli wondered whether he had found any release for his grief and anger during the time when he was growing up and the world was growing darker. He suspected he knew the answer.

He spoke up quietly at last. 'You've been sitting on all that for several centuries, haven't you?'

'Quite possibly,' Legolas smiled back weakly.

An affectionate shake of the head from the Dwarf. 'Stubborn Elf.'

'You don't understand, Gimli. I could not have stopped to think about my reactions to everything, all that time we were defending our home. It would have been fatal. So many fallen comrades and never enough time to grieve before the next crisis happened. I just turned it all into resolve and fury for the fight. And now…'

'The fight is over, and all that emotion has nowhere else to go.'

Legolas nodded shakily. 'Something like that.'

A moment, again, and then Legolas whispered hoarsely.

'It's so hard to believe that it's finally over.'

Gimli pondered this for a moment. He did not know exactly how old Legolas was, only that he had lived for centuries but was still a considered youthful by his people. He wondered how long this fight had been for his friend. He knew his history. If, as was entirely plausible for even a young Elf, he had been involved since the end of the Watchful Peace, then he had been fighting Dol Guldur for nearly six hundred years, at least; potentially the majority of his life so far. Thus, for Legolas, the destruction of the Ring could not have marked the final destruction of Sauron, not really. He must have been waiting, on edge, all these weeks to hear that Dol Guldur had fallen, needing this information to allow himself to accept that it really was over.

Now he had that information, and he didn't know what to do with it. And not just that, but the whole thing, the knowledge of what it had taken to do it, what his friends and family and people had sacrificed to make this new age a reality. Gimli wondered how he had kept his composure, even such as it was, those first hours after receiving the news.

'It's over, Legolas,' he said gently. 'Your people won. It might take some time to sink in, though. Let yourself have that time. _Mahal_ _knows_ , you've earned it.'

Legolas seemed to come back to himself a little after that, straightening and looking around as he handed Gimli back his handkerchief and waterskin. His face fell as he registered where he was and exactly what he had just done.

' _Sweet Elbereth!'_ he groaned and scrunched his eyes closed. 'We're in a public place!'

'Sorry, lad,' Gimli looked abashed. 'Perhaps suggesting a walk this afternoon wasn't my best idea. I should have known somewhere private would be better.'

'It's not your fault. I didn't tell you my news and…I was not expecting to do that.'

'I wasn't expecting you to do that either,' Gimli answered honestly. 'But I think you needed it.'

Legolas exhaled sharply. 'Perhaps I did. But it's still embarrassing. Did anyone see?'

'Don't worry, it's quite secluded here,' Gimli evaded, trying not to admit that there had in fact been one or two gawking passers-by. He was relieved when Legolas did not press the issue, perhaps genuinely wishing to remain ignorant of whether the past few minutes had been witnessed or not.

'Thank Elbereth for that.'

'I understand you're embarrassed, lad, but you have nothing to be ashamed of. What would your Mithrandir say, eh?'

Legolas paused for a moment, looking down at his feet, and then gathered himself and declared, 'not all tears are evil,' imitating the wizard's avuncular air when imparting wisdom so well that he made Gimli chuckle.

'There you go, see! Now try to believe that.'

'And therein lies the hard part.'

'And since when did you run from a challenge?'

Exactly as Gimli predicted, this roused Legolas' defiance once more.

'I said it was hard. I never said I wouldn't do it.'

Gimli reached up to grasp his shoulder. 'Now that's more like it.'

Legolas smiled and returned the gesture, then drew his hand back and stared at Gimli's shoulder in horror.

'Your tunic is drenched. I'm so sorry!'

Legolas wasn't exaggerating. Gimli plucked at the soaked fabric and shrugged.

'Don't trouble yourself over it. I will say that's quite an impressive volume you produced there though, lad. You could power half of Erebor with those waterworks!'

For a moment, Legolas hovered between feeling outraged and feeling mortified, but then he caught Gimli's eye and saw that the teasing was meant in the very best and kindest of spirits, and he laughed.

'Gimli, I'm disappointed in myself. Why not the whole of Erebor?'

'Erebor,' Gimli pronounced solemnly, 'Is a very big mountain.'

'Well, I shall have to try harder next time then.'

And Legolas laughed again at the sheer horror and panic written on Gimli's face at these words.

'I jest, Gimli, do not fear! I won't be doing that again.'

Gimli, now in control of his instinctive reactions, pinioned him with a firm gaze. 'On the contrary, you will if you need to. And you will not be ashamed of it. And you will find me and I will be there. No matter how much of Erebor you need to power.'

Legolas took a deep breath and grasped Gimli's forearm. 'Thank you, _elvellon._ '


	2. The Sorcery of Samwise Gamgee

_A/N Thanks so much to Shirebound and UnnamedElement for your encouraging reviews. On with chapter two, hope you enjoy!_

 **Chapter Two: The Sorcery of Samwise Gamgee**

Once Legolas had gathered himself sufficiently, they both made their way back to Fellowship House, sharing an easy quiet unlike the tense silence in which they had set out. Eventually, Gimli asked,

'Have you spoken to Aragorn about this yet?'

Legolas shook his head. 'He sent a note along with my father's missive. His messenger to Eryn Galen- _Lasgalen,_ now actually- returned late last night then gave his report early this morning and delivered the missive for me. Aragorn wanted to give it to me personally but he's in council all day and he didn't want to make me wait any longer than I had to or hear the tidings by rumour before I was told.'

'Ruddy councils!' Gimli spluttered. 'He's the king! Why can't he just move them?'

'He did have a few choice words about the irrelevance of the things the councils were discussing, compared with his desire to give me these tidings personally, but we both know politics doesn't work like that. I'm glad he didn't drop everything because of this. I would not have been pleased with him if he had upset half his kingdom three weeks into his reign just to deliver a letter.'

Gimli heaved a sigh. 'I know, I suppose we're going to have to get used to sharing him with a kingdom. Doesn't mean I have to like it.'

'It is partly my own fault, too,' Legolas admitted. 'He did tell me to come to the palace at around noon and catch him to talk about it then, but I wasn't quite- well, I didn't.'

He was expecting Gimli to pry further into his motivations for not speaking with Aragorn, perhaps scold him for keeping things to himself, so he was most relieved when Gimli simply said, 'I'm sure he'll understand. How much does he know?'

'Just the political situation, I believe. He got the official report, but my letter was a personal one from my father.'

'And how does your father fare?' Gimli asked, realising that Legolas had not said much on this subject and imagining Glóin's reaction if he could see his son asking after the Elvenking's welfare. It would probably involve turning puce, at the very least.

' _Claims_ he is unhurt,' Legolas responded, his tone showing exactly how little he was inclined to believe this.

'Ah,' Gimli raised an eyebrow. 'Runs in the family then, does it?'

Legolas threw him a sharp glance, catching Gimli's reference to the aftermath of the Pelennor (1) and wordlessly warning the Dwarf not to go there. Ever. If he wanted to retain his limbs.

'I have no idea what you're talking about.' Gimli hastily stifled a chuckle, which earned him another glare. 'Anyway, the missive is in his hand and he is being infuriatingly close, which suggests that he has thought through carefully what to tell me and what not to tell me, so he can't be badly injured. And I would just know, if it was serious. But _unhurt?_ He didn't say, but I know without him telling me that he led the charge. He is a formidable warrior, but I am not inclined to believe that he escaped that without some sort of injury.'

'Perhaps you're right. But you driving yourself to distraction guessing how he's hurt won't help, you know.'

Legolas sighed. 'I know. He survived, the kingdom survived, and they're safe enough now. That's miraculous enough in itself.'

'Well, hold onto that then, laddie.' Gimli reflected for a minute and then said, 'you implied that you think there are things he's not telling you. But what you told me earlier sounded quite… detailed.'

'He's told me what he has to tell me. He knows I'd never forgive him if he let me believe that Thelion, Aratur and Brondir were alive and then came home to find-'

He broke off for a second and looked away. 'If they weren't there when I came home. And he knew I'd be wondering about Feredir once I heard that Dol Guldur had fallen, and that I'd have felt the change in Arturon. But he's not telling me much about the actual battle. I don't know how close it was, and he's not given me casualty numbers. All he says is that there were 'grievous losses.' 'Grievous losses'- I ask you, could he have been more evasive? What does that even mean? Does that mean we lost a fifth of our army? A third? A half? More, even? My people know well what it is to pay a heavy price for victory, so if even Ada describes the losses as grievous... How much of the forest did they burn? How close to my father's halls did the enemy come? Were any of those losses elves who were not warriors? How long will the healing of the forest take? Will it ever fully heal, after centuries of the Shadow and then Dol Guldur's parting shot?'

He shook his head and huffed in exasperation. 'Grievous losses. Two words that say too much and not enough.' He looked across to Gimli, who was watching him with concern after this outburst. 'My apologies. I don't really know where that came from.'

'Your heart, I think. It cries out for the fate of your homeland and your people. And you have no need to apologise for that. Especially not to me.'

Legolas swallowed hard and nodded. ' _Mellon nín._ What would I do without you?'

Gimli chuckled. 'Doesn't bear thinking about.' By now they had reached their temporary home in Minas Tirith and slipped inside, only to meet Sam on his way downstairs. Catching sight of Legolas' red-rimmed eyes and tearstained cheeks, he immediately cried out,

'Mr Legolas, sir! Whatever's the matter?'

'I am quite alright, Sam,' Legolas replied, with an attempt at a reassuring smile. Gimli quickly stepped in to translate.

'What he means to say, Sam, is that he is not at all alright at the moment and he would very much appreciate a cup of tea, if you don't mind.'

Legolas glared at him and Gimli smiled sweetly back.

'Right you are, Gimli, I'll get the kettle on. I'm sorry about whatever's happened, Legolas. I'll help in whatever way I can.'

Legolas ceased his glaring at Gimli to smile gratefully at Sam. 'Thank you, Sam. Though you need not trouble yourself, I am capable of making myself a drink, despite Gimli's Dwarvish misconceptions about my abilities.'

'Begging your pardon, sir, but I'll do it, it's no bother. I was about to put on a pot for afternoon tea anyways and it's always better shared.'

'Legolas, for once in your life accept a friendly gesture with some grace and have done with it!' Gimli chimed in, his tone a mixture of amusement and irritation.

Legolas held up his hands in surrender. 'It seems I am outnumbered, then. Thank you, my friends. Now if you'll excuse me for a moment, I shall go and refresh myself and come back down for the tea. I must look quite a sight.'

Sam tactfully did not answer this, but Gimli commented with a gentle smile, 'I won't lie, lad, you've looked better. And so have I, I'd wager. I better change my tunic. We'll be down in a minute.'

And he stumped upstairs, leaving Sam to wonder how on earth Gimli's tunic had got so thoroughly drenched when it hadn't been raining.

* * *

When a suitably dry Gimli returned to the sitting room, he found Legolas looking considerably more like his usual self, only the faintest hint of redness around his eyes witnessing to the events earlier in the afternoon. Sam was in the process of extolling the virtues of the various pastries and cakes on the table before him, trying to coax Legolas into picking one of them, firmly believing in the hobbit philosophy that there were few issues for which food was not the answer. Caught between Gimli's stern, though slightly amused, expression and Sam's concerned, determined one, Legolas now had no escape and eventually picked up a slice of apple tart, thanking Sam profusely and making him blush. Gimli needed no such persuasion and helped himself to some carrot cake, wondering idly how on earth Sam kept their house constantly supplied with such treats on what was essentially post-war rations. The hobbit himself was fascinated by tales of elven magic, but Sam's ability to create a delicious feast out of odds and ends was a magic all his own. As was his ability to provide companionship and encourage others to trust him, Gimli realised over the next few minutes, as he watched Legolas open up to the hobbit with an unexpected ease. After serving them all some tea and picking up a slice of the tart for himself, Sam settled himself into one of the hobbit-sized chairs and said,

'Now, sir, I'm not one to understand elven sorrows, and I'm sure whatever it is, is way above my head. So you don't need to bother explaining it to me, if you don't want to, I'll understand, but if the ear of a hobbit can be any help at all, there's a pair of them right here ready to listen sir.'

'Thank you, Sam. That is very kind of you. Although, I wonder if you noticed you're 'sir'-ing again?'

Sam gave himself a mock slap on the wrist and chuckled.

'Sorry, Legolas. I know you remind me all the time. It's just instinct, see. Samwise Gamgee on first name terms with a prince o' the Fair Folk? I still can't get my head around it, even after all this time.'

'I should think we've all seen things far more incredible than that, in the past year. In fact, that's one thing I don't find hard to believe at all,' Legolas replied gently, making Sam blush again.

'A friendship between an Elf and a Dwarf, perhaps? Now that's hard to believe,' Gimli remarked with a wink at Legolas.

'Aye, if you told me _that_ , I would say you had lost your wits,' Legolas replied without missing a beat.

'And I would ask to hear the tale, for it's sure to be a great one,' Sam concluded merrily.

'You don't need me to tell you the tale, you saw it unfold! But in fact, I think I shall avail myself of that pair of listening hobbit ears for the matter which presses on my heart, if you don't mind, Sam?'

Sam nodded earnestly. 'I'll do my best to understand si-, I mean, Legolas.'

'Don't worry, it's nothing complicated. I don't think a love of home is exclusive to elves.'

Sam went wide-eyed. 'It's about Mir- _Greenwood,_ then?'

Legolas smiled at Sam's self-correction. About two centuries ago, Legolas had finally given up the fight to stop others referring to his home as Mirkwood and had even caught himself doing it in his bleaker moments. Thus, by the time the Fellowship set out he had become inured to it, and his home was always 'Mirkwood' in their conversations, even if he personally avoided the term for the most part. However, once he had explained the history of his home to Sam, the hobbit had declared that he would refer to the forest as 'Greenwood' from that point on. When Legolas had told him he need not worry over it, the hobbit had shrugged and said, 'we all need to hold on to a bit of hope, sir,' and strode off to tend to Bill before Legolas could respond or continue his crusade to stop the hobbit calling him 'sir'. Sam would often stumble over the word after that, the name he'd heard so many times in Bilbo's stories slipping out before he could stop it, but unfailingly, every time, he remembered and corrected himself. It was a small gesture of solidarity, but one that brought more hope to Legolas than he had ever been able to express.

This made the tidings he was about to share even more significant, and he was reminded that Sam had had unshakeable faith in the power of his kin to lift the shadow from their wood, along with its associated name, even when he himself was close to despair. _It was always Greenwood to Sam, ever since he learned of our situation, even when it was Mirkwood to me,_ he realised. He felt a lump forming in his throat, suddenly moved by an emotion he could not name, even as he smiled and said,

'Yes, Sam. I had a letter from home this morning. It is Mirkwood no longer. The Greenwood will be restored to itself, as you always had faith it would. They have renamed it Eryn Lasgalen, Wood of the Green Leaves.' Legolas' eyes glistened as he said this, and he stared into the distance for a moment, entranced by the vision of a green and vibrant forest only he could see.

'I knew your folk'd come through in the end! Oh, Legolas, you must be thrilled!' Sam declared with a quiet conviction, after the moment had passed and Legolas looked down again, blinking.

'And I am. You must be wondering why I'm so upset when we finally triumphed. It's silly, really.'

'I don't think it's silly, Legolas,' Sam pronounced with an almost startling certainty in his voice. 'I don't know the ins and outs of it, but you've been fighting this since way before Bilbo's business, haven't you?'

'Yes,' Legolas replied, a little surprised at how quickly Sam had hit on the heart of the matter. 'A long time before Bilbo's business, as you call it. Most of my life, in fact.'

'Then you've just heard that something that you've been hoping for and working for your entire life has been finished. It'd be silly _not_ to be affected by that.'

Legolas stared down thoughtfully at his cup of tea. 'I hadn't thought of it like that,' he said at last. 'I suppose you're right.'

'And I think congratulations are in order,' Sam said in a lighter tone.

Legolas looked up again with an achingly sad smile and such hurt in his eyes that Gimli had to look away.

'No, they're not, Sam,' he said softly. 'I wasn't there.'

 _Ah,_ thought Gimli, _and there's that guilt. I wondered where it was lurking._ He broke into the conversation.

'It's still your forest. And you've been defending it for longer than I care to think about. Just because you were fighting evil elsewhere at the end doesn't mean it's not your victory, too.'

Legolas clenched his jaw. 'Three of my good friends gave their lives so that this victory could happen. And I wasn't there to give mine, to defend them. It is their victory. Never mine. Yet in the injustice of the world I live to reap the fruits of their labours. I don't even know if they lived long enough to know we won- or rather, they won.'

'I'm sorry, Legolas,' Sam breathed, horrified. 'I didn't know.'

Legolas shook his head. 'I hadn't said. Thelion, Aratur and Brondir. They were all captains, excellent ones, all older than me, better than me. They deserved to see the end of this. If I could trade my place with theirs…'

'Then the Quest may have failed, or they might have been killed at any of the dangerous places on our road. You are old enough and wise enough to know the dangers of 'what if', Legolas,' Gimli chided gently.

'Am I?' he swirled his teacup absent-mindedly. 'More dangerous, less wise, they say of us Silvans. Perhaps I am allowed my unwise speculation.'

Gimli looked like he had something to say to that, but Sam cut in quickly, perhaps realising that the ensuing debate was unlikely to be helpful at this point. 'Was there anything else in your letter, Legolas?'

Legolas steadied himself before he next spoke, and unlike when he had recited his news to Gimli in a state of shocked numbness earlier, this time the wobble trying to creep into his voice was only too audible. 'Aye. My immediate family all escaped relatively unscathed. It sounds like the final battle was vicious and there were-,' the bitterness of the word in his mouth was evident, 'grievous losses. I'm not entirely sure how bad it was, but certainly parts of the forest have been destroyed and many of our warriors fell. My nearest friend at home, Arturon, lost his right hand in the battle, I don't know how. He gave his life to the art of the bow. He honed it for two millennia. That's always been my greatest fear, you know. Not death, but losing part of myself and having to carry on. And now one of my closest friends is living it.'

He took a few shaky breaths and Sam was about to speak when Gimli almost imperceptibly shook his head. It was probably better for Legolas to let all of this out in one go.

'And another friend, who was captured when Gollum escaped partly due to my inadequacy, was rescued from Dol Guldur. He might recover enough to sail, or he might fade. They just know he won't be healed here after what he suffered. Those are all the details _Adar_ saw fit to tell me.' He closed his eyes and drew in another deep breath, blew it out and then opened his eyes to see the worried faces of his companions. 'I'll be alright. It's just-' He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it.

'All a bit much at once?' Sam suggested gently. Gimli winced. Sam's tone was compassionate and understanding, not a bit patronising, but Gimli himself would have been far too cautious of Legolas' pride to use that wording. He braced himself for the inevitable backlash. To his astonishment, it did not come, and instead Legolas nodded slowly.

'Aye, Sam. It's all a bit much.'

Gimli caught himself with his jaw dropped open, and promptly closed it again before Legolas could notice. _What kind of sorcerer are you, Samwise Gamgee, and what have you done with my Elf?_ he wondered, astonished. He watched in awe as Sam nodded understandingly and reached out from his chair to catch Legolas' hand in his. He looked a little unsure of himself once he'd done it, but Legolas looked back at him in surprised gratitude, and squeezed the tiny hand in his gently to let him know that the gesture was appreciated. They stayed like that for a while, not speaking, just extending the moment of companionship and support for as long as they possibly could. Eventually Legolas released Sam's hand and ran his own through his hair, newly combed after its encounter with Gimli's beard. Then he said,

'I think the worst part is the not being there, not knowing exactly what damage was done, not knowing who died beyond a few select people my father chose to tell me about, not being able to help them recover. And the fact that I couldn't help them fight.'

He clenched his hand and tapped it a few times on the arm of his chair, the only visible outlet of his frustration.

'You _did_ help them fight, though, Legolas,' Sam said quietly. 'You don't have to be in your home to fight for it. What do you think kept me and Frodo going in Mordor, then?'

Legolas blinked, startled by the question. 'I don't know. I didn't like to ask, bringing up memories of that terrible place.'

'Well, I'll tell you now,' Sam declared, eyes blazing. 'It was the Shire, and each other. Every step across that plain, in the barrenness, the dust and those awful smokes, that was for the rolling hills and the green fields and the gentle people of the Shire, so that they could stay that way. Towards the end, when it got really bad, Frodo couldn't remember, couldn't see anything other than _him_ and that accursed Ring. So I did my best to remember for both of us, and I thought of my Frodo, back at his desk in Bag End, writing about his adventures in safety and comfort, and I thought of my Rosie, teasing me when she brings round some of her ma's apple pie, and I thought that unless I put one foot in front of the other, all these people, all these places I love, are going to disappear. And I'm not having that. So I went on. I'd imagine it was similar for you, wasn't it? You fought like you did because you loved both the people fighting beside you and your forest back home and the folk there.'

Sam looked back at Legolas expectantly. He nodded, truthfully, but remained silent, as if afraid to break the spell which had suddenly revealed to them the steel hiding inside their gentle hobbit gardener, the steel that took him all the way to Mount Doom.

'Well, if we hadn't done what we did, the Shire would have become like Mordor. And if you, and Strider, and Gimli, and all the rest, hadn't done what you did, distracting him for us like that, your forest would have become like Mordor too, and Gimli's mountain, and Strider's city as well. So if I could fight for the Shire by walking through Mordor, it's plain to see that you did everything you could to make your forest into the Wood of the Greenleaves, even though that was by fighting somewhere else. So it really is your victory too. And they'll be grateful to you, and proud, I'm sure of that. They'll answer to me if they're not!'

Sam gave a huge huff as he finished this impromptu oration and then seemed to suddenly shrink as he realised that two stunned pairs of eyes were fixed on him.

'If you don't mind me saying, sirs,' he added belatedly. Legolas had gone completely still, and Gimli could see the anxiety in Sam's eyes, the cogs turning in his mind as he tried to work out if he'd said the wrong thing. Then suddenly, Legolas rose from his chair, knelt in front of Sam's smaller one, and swept the hobbit forwards into an enormous hug. Sam looked more than a little perplexed as Legolas moved towards him, unsure what he was about to do, until at last he realised what was happening. Then his expression changed from nervous confusion to awestruck wonder, as it slowly registered with him that he was being embraced by one of the Firstborn as if Sam were the most precious thing in existence. For a moment his arms hovered a little awkwardly, and he seemed unsure what to do with them, as though he didn't really believe that his usually reserved friend would permit him to reciprocate. Legolas, however, made no sign of moving, so he tentatively brought his arms to rest draped around the Elf's shoulders. Then with more enthusiasm, and a murmured 'there, now,' he hugged him in return, his shorter arms barely reaching the whole way across Legolas' back. Gimli, looking on, was most definitely _not_ crying. Dwarves, he told himself, were not the sentimental sort of beings who could shed a tear just because an emotional Elf hugged a hobbit. _Especially_ not a hardy warrior-Dwarf of Erebor. And if his eyes were a little on the watery side today, then that of course was just coincidental.

Eventually, Sam very gingerly patted Legolas on the back and said, in a tone of gentle concern,

'Now, then, what's all this about? I expect I just rambled on about what you already knew.'

'Maybe, but the thing is, Sam,' came Legolas' voice, slightly muffled from where his head was resting against Sam's shoulder, 'I think I believe it now.'

* * *

(1) Not a reference to any of my stories, more to fanon Legolas in general. Change the name of the battle if necessary and feel free to insert your favourite 'Legolas says he's fine and hides symptoms then dramatically collapses causing serious consternation for all concerned' fic here. You seriously don't need me to write another, fun as they undoubtedly are, FFN provides an excellent selection. Alternative fanfic sites are also available. ;-)


	3. The Coming of Spring

_A/N Thanks so much to my faithful reviewer Shirebound for your review on the last chapter, your feedback never fails to make me smile! On with the next chapter, the last dealing with Legolas' news specifically; next week there's a messenger from Erebor…_

 **Chapter Three: The Coming of Spring**

Just as Sam was beginning to wonder whether he would be obliged to spend the rest of his time in Minas Tirith in the arms of an overwrought Elf, Legolas released him, thanked him, and then headed up to the balcony for some time alone to reflect on his news. When he returned later that evening, so had most of his customary composure, much to Gimli's relief. He did not go into as much detail about his friends' circumstances when he conveyed the tidings to the rest of the assembled Company, but he communicated well enough that there was sorrow for him in these tidings as well as joy. Now that the shock and incredulity had faded though, Legolas seemed to have opened himself up to the joyful implications of his news, and Gimli's heart swelled to hear his delighted laughter as Pippin launched into plans for a visit to Legolas' home just moments after hearing of its new name. Gimli slipped away after this, satisfied that the Elf would be thoroughly occupied by three curious hobbits for a time, and went to help Sam with the project he had been frantically working for most of the afternoon on since their conversation earlier. Gandalf had also been roped in, and both ancient Maia and hardy Dwarf were soon scurrying to obey Sam's orders. In the enigma that was Samwise Gamgee, at times painfully deferential and at others blunt and forthright, he seemed to have no qualms about this arrangement, and in his domain- the kitchen- he was perfectly happy to take command. They were just putting in place the finishing touches to Sam's plan when Gimli heard the wild hammering on the door. His heart leapt into his mouth. _It sounds urgent. Erebor? Already?_ Legolas, however, already on high alert for everything to do with messengers today, was sprinting to get it and disappeared from the sitting room, leaving Pippin open-mouthed halfway through a question. He got to the door just ahead of Gimli and opened it to reveal a slightly windswept King of Gondor.

' _Mellon nín,_ I'm so sorry,' said King exclaimed as he pulled the startled Elf into his arms.

'Whatever for? What's happened? More tidings?' Legolas pulled away and ushered him inside, his brow creased in anxiety.

'No, nothing like that. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I meant for not bringing you the tidings myself. I should have been there. I should not have left you to learn of this alone.'

'Oh, but Estel,' he said, with the slightest of gestures to the assembled Fellowship who had by that point followed him into the hallway. 'I wasn't alone.'

Aragorn blinked a few times, and then collected himself. 'Of course you weren't. That was a selfish remark and I'm sorry.' He grinned ruefully. 'I'm not doing very well today, am I?' Then, with more concern. 'Are you alright?'

'As expected,' he replied softly. 'My letter contained personal news, as you probably guessed. My people have triumphed, and friends have fallen. I rejoice and yet I grieve. But I will be fine.'

Aragorn, noting the future tense in that statement, simply hugged Legolas again and this time the Elf returned it. Eventually, Aragorn whispered, 'I'm sorry, I should have been here, _mellon nín.'_

'No, you should not,' Legolas replied firmly. 'You should have done exactly what you did, putting your commitments first like the king you are and trusting that me to handle this as I needed to. You're here now. And that is more than enough for me.'

They clasped forearms for a moment, Aragorn clearly struggling to find the words to respond to this and the softness in Legolas' eyes wordlessly reassuring him that none were required.

The other members of the Company who had been peering into the hall had dispersed by now, suddenly feeling like they were intruding on something private. Only Gimli remained, tactfully turned away from the pair, seemingly intent on studying one of the paintings in the hall.

Legolas frowned thoughtfully, stepping back. 'Although... it's not yet sundown. Aren't you still supposed to be in council?

'Faramir's dealing with the last session. That man is a gift from the Valar, I swear. He all but evicted me from my own council chamber- very politely, of course, this _is_ Faramir we're talking about- and hinted strongly that my mind was elsewhere, and I might as well take my body to join it. Then told me to send you his regards.'

'He certainly has mine, and it seems he knows you well already. Won't your lords be upset, though?'

Aragorn gave a most unkingly snort. 'First thing I learnt about kingship: lords are _always_ upset. It's in their nature. Faramir can handle them. I'll be able to look through and sign off anything that comes out of it later, anyway, which was why I managed to escape. I couldn't do anything about the others, though, I really did need to be at those. I'm sorry, _mellon nín,_ I would have been here if I could.'

'I know, and I appreciate that. Sorry I didn't come to see you earlier.'

'No matter, as long as you're alright. I was worried.'

'Sorry I worried you. I didn't mean to, I just-'

'Are you two going to come in and get some food or are you going to stand there apologising to each other all night?' Gimli's amused voice cut in to their discussion, and both looking slightly sheepish, they followed him through to the dining room.

When they got there, both stopped short, as Sam looked up from laying the final dish on the table. The entire spread was covered with green. The wooden table, usually unadorned, had been covered with a vibrant green tablecloth, and assorted scraps of green cloth had been fashioned into makeshift hangings around the room. Scattered along the table were plates of bright salads with young leaves, tossed through with sliced cucumber and sprinkled with toppings of nuts. These were interspersed with bowls of a light vegetable broth, full of asparagus and green beans with mint leaves sprinkled generously on the top. Two freshly baked loaves of bread were filling the room with a heavenly scent, and both were crowned with intricate oak leaf designs worked in dough. And as a centrepiece, there was a casserole full of beautiful, rich stew, liberally strewn with bright green sorrel leaves which gleamed like jewels. Sam's ears turned slightly pink as he stood beside what was, of course, his masterpiece.

'In honour of the Wood of Green Leaves. I thought it was only right and proper that we celebrate.'

Legolas looked on, speechless, trying to work out how on earth the hobbit had orchestrated all of this in the few short hours since they had parted and incredibly moved that he had.

'Don't you like it, sir?'

Legolas was momentarily tempted to fight the 'sir' battle but decided that reassurance would do just as well.

'Sam. This is wonderful. _Hannon le._ ' He fisted his hand above his heart and bowed low, causing Sam to turn scarlet and the rest of the gathered Company to beam delightedly. Then the whole table erupted into laughter as Aragorn and Legolas both tried to sit in the same seat, leaving the head of the table for the other. Eventually Legolas was persuaded to take the head, and once they were settled, Gandalf cleared his throat and raised his glass.

'To Eryn Lasgalen. Proof that even after a long dark night of centuries...' He turned to bestow a brilliant smile on Legolas, the corners of his eyes crinkling. 'You can always count on Elves to find the sun.'

Legolas laughed brightly at this, though when his eyes met Gandalf's they were filled with a profound gratitude, and myriad emotions far deeper than mirth.

'Eryn Lasgalen!' eight voices chorused as they raised their glasses high. And when Legolas seemed a little too interested in examining his wineglass after this, blinking a little faster than is usual for an Elf, his friends pretended not to notice. Gimli soon had the others distracted, by picking up a lettuce leaf as if it were some severed appendage of an orc, and declaring loudly,

'Now, it's a lovely idea to celebrate Legolas' wood being named for Green Leaves, but I don't see why that makes it necessary for us to consume the things!'

* * *

The evening passed in merriment. Legolas talked of his very early childhood memories of the Greenwood at the end of the Watchful Peace, and of course his tales of elflinghood earned him some ribbing from Gimli about not having done much growing up in the intervening centuries. Pippin immediately came to Legolas' defence, claiming that if one could be named Trollbane and a Knight of Gondor before even coming of age, then there was nothing whatsoever wrong with youth, and it was perfectly reasonable that one should want to extend it for centuries if that were possible. He and Merry had their hearts set on a visit to Eryn Lasgalen, and their planned route, as they discussed it, evolved into something of a Grand Tour involving most of Middle Earth. They also extracted a promise from Legolas to visit the Shire, and soon all four hobbits were planning an inordinately detailed itinerary for him. This of course led to a heated debate over the superiority of Tuckborough or Buckland, which Frodo attempted to mediate with much careful diplomacy but, it must be said, little success.

All heartily sated on Sam's incredible fare, they found themselves a few hours later sitting round the hearth fire, for once with not a pipe in sight and no complaint about that fact. When Legolas expressed his astonishment about this, Gimli told him rather gruffly not to get used to it, but he knew that his friends were foregoing their after-dinner smoke for his sake, and his smile of gratitude said it all. The days' events had turned the thoughts of all homeward, and the hobbits began to speak of friends and family keenly missed, what their plans were upon their return, the comforts of home they most longed to return to. Legolas and Gimli made their contributions but found this subject of discussion a little difficult to negotiate: Legolas because he knew the names of those who would not greet him on his return; Gimli precisely because he did not know this information but expected to hear it soon. Aragorn, sensing their discomfort, talked of his first home, Rivendell, the home he would not be returning to for long since now he ruled in Gondor. Though his fosterage in Rivendell had been the subject of many fireside discussions on their travels, it was endlessly fascinating to the hobbits, particularly Sam, who enjoyed musing on the wonders of growing up among the elves. This gave the Elf and Dwarf a respite from the concerns of their own homes for a while, for which they were grateful.

Nevertheless, after the earlier rush of elation and merrymaking as he accepted the victory of his people over darkness, an aching, throbbing melancholy settled in Legolas' heart as he also began to accept the loss of three very close companions and the harms which befell two more. So whilst the company were being regaled by Aragorn's tale of 'accidentally' informing the Dúnedain of an embarrassing story about Elrohir, Legolas unobtrusively slipped away to the balcony. There, he breathed in the intoxicating call of the Elvenhome carried from the sea on the night breeze. The laments for his friends slipped easily from lips, his singing almost an instinctive response to his grief, not needing to be summoned by conscious thought. As he sang, he imagined the laments weaving themselves into that sound of waves on the wind, and somehow flowing back the way it had come, reaching those fallen companions, assuring them of his continued love for them though the Sundering Sea and Mandos' Halls separated them now.

It was some time after midnight when he finally stopped singing and realised that he was not alone. Gandalf was leaning over the opposite side of the balcony, chewing on the end of his unlit pipe as he gazed contemplatively at the stars. Sensing the Elf's scrutiny, Gandalf made his way across to him and smiled kindly and a little sadly.

'I see that this day brings you mourning as well as celebration, then.'

Legolas explained the more distressing details of his news which he had not shared earlier, and Gandalf nodded grimly in response.

'I suspected something of the sort was inevitable given the nature of the fight; although knowing that does not lessen the pain, I imagine.'

'Aye, you speak truly. I grieve for them and it is feels strange to do so in this shattered city of stone without the trees echoing the lament.'

'It is a hard thing to be far from home and hear these tidings, of course it is. And you have every right to your sorrow. Grieve because you miss them, because they did not see their efforts come to fruition, because they are gone from your community. But do not grieve for _them_. They are safely in Mandos' keeping now, until they may be rehoused, and Mandos is a fair host, if a little austere at times.'

Legolas nodded silently but did not look convinced. Gandalf huffed and said,

'Believe me, I ought to know.'

Legolas' eyes widened in surprise at this revelation, since the company knew well not to probe Gandalf on the mysterious interlude between his fight with the Balrog and his return as the White Wizard; he usually remained silent on this subject.

'You know from your own experience? I thought that you were decided against speaking of it.'

'I tell you nothing that you could not learn in your lore. Learn to trust the tales of the Valar you were taught, Thranduilion, for their words are true. You should not need a resurrected Istar to tell you that.'

At Legolas' bewildered expression, Gandalf softened. 'But this resurrected Istar confirms it for you all the same. Eru Ilúvatar is kind to all his returning children, whether they come by way of Mandos or the Straight Road. Have faith and know that your comrades are in safe hands.'

Legolas looked out to the stars for a long moment, drinking in their comforting light, and listening to the song of the sea, which tonight seemed even more melancholy than usual. Eventually he turned to Gandalf and said,

'May I ask you a question, Mithrandir?'

Gandalf's eyes sparkled. 'You just did, _penneth_. But since I am in a generous mood, you may ask another.'

'Did it hurt?'

Gandalf knew immediately what 'it' was and placed his hand on top of Legolas' where it rested on the balcony railing as he answered.

'Once I let go? Not a bit.'

'What was it like?'

'Another question? My goodness. Well, I suppose I might allow you one more. It is not given to me to know if all of Ilúvatar's children journey in the same way. But for me, it was like the melody that was my life within the great song of the Ainur reached its resolution. I could finally hear the music clearly once my own part had faded away, and it was beautiful in a way no words could begin to describe. Then, cradled in the arms of that complex music I was carried home.'

'That…does not sound too bad.'

Gandalf met Legolas' gaze steadily and kept his hand atop the Elf's, giving him a physical anchor in this talk of grief.

'Nay, Legolas. It was not.'

Legolas sighed deeply and gave Gandalf a grateful smile. 'It is a great comfort to hear that, Mithrandir. Thank you for sharing it with me.' Gandalf acknowledged this with a nod and again they lapsed until silence, until Legolas said,

'Turning my thoughts to home has made me reconsider Galadriel's message.'

Gandalf's sharp gaze came to rest on Legolas again.

'Oh?'

'I misinterpreted it at first, thinking it meant my death. But then I heard the gull and thought that that explained everything. But perhaps I still did not truly understand. Perhaps it's actually about more than the sea-longing. Maybe she meant that my heart would rest in the forest no more because the forest I used to rest in, my forest, would be changed beyond recognition.'

'And you have reason to believe that?'

'My father reports that 'significant portions of the forest were damaged by the tools of the enemy.' If he thinks to allay my worry by giving me no specific information about where and how badly, that was an extremely counterproductive strategy.'

'If only because his son has an unparalleled ability to fret over things he cannot change. I understand it is difficult not knowing _,_ and of course it will distress you that your home was damaged. But whether Galadriel predicted that or not is beside the point. _The darkness did not win_ , Legolas. Hold on to that thought. Your home is renamed Eryn Lasgalen now, and your people will come back from the destruction and renew their home. They do seem to have a knack for that, after all.'

Legolas' eyes flashed dangerously at that last comment.

'Oh, yes of course, we're the Sindar and Silvans. No need to worry about us. We'll survive. That's what we do, after all, isn't it? We give so much of ourselves as we are drawn into the catastrophes of Arda, so much that we lose even when we win. Then, we come back, rebuild, and wait for the next crisis. Because there always is a next crisis. It never ends, for us. Is it so very wrong of me to yearn for our people to have something that will last, for once? Or to wish that we could have a peace that hasn't been paid for ten times over in our people's blood?'

Gandalf simply raised his eyebrows at him and waited for a few moments as Legolas steadied himself against the balcony.

'Feel better now that's out of your system?'

Legolas' tense posture relaxed back into his usual graceful stance. 'Aye. My apologies, Mithrandir. It was wrong of me to rail at you like that.'

'Well, the history of your people is not exactly within my control, as I'm sure you're aware. Although I will concede, you have a point. Your people's sacrifices in the various tragedies that have befallen Arda over the Ages have been great and often overlooked. It is not wrong to yearn for true rest and renewal after the harsh fighting you have all been involved in. Know, however, that you will have that restoration now.'

'Forgive me, Mithrandir,' Legolas countered softly, without the bitterness that might be expected in such a comment, only melancholy, 'if I find that a little hard to believe.'

'Indeed, there is nothing to forgive,' Gandalf replied, 'but I ask that you try to believe it. Barad Dur and Dol Guldur have fallen, as has their erstwhile master. The One Ring is melted and will never exert its corruptive influence again. I will repeat those facts to you as often as you need in order to accept that your fight is over.'

'Over for how long, Mithrandir? It does feel momentous, cataclysmic, but so did the downfall of Morgoth, I imagine. Doriath, Sirion, Eregion, Lindon, Greenwood; all those safe refuges that turned out to be anything but. I do not see why this time is guaranteed to be different.'

'It is not,' Gandalf said simply, surprising Legolas by not offering an argument. 'Nothing is guaranteed about the future. But you sense, as I do, that the time of Men approaches and that the old world of which we are a part begins to fade. Realise, then, that you have this present moment of peace in which you may bring blessing to Arda before you sail, if you wish. Perhaps it is a permanent restoration, perhaps it is but a reprieve from evil; learn to seize it, and flourish in it without anxiety for how long you will have. That is how your people have survived all that they have, by rejoicing in each time of peace as they found it. Do not scorn that gift for survival, for it is a precious one.'

'You are wise, Mithrandir, and your counsels are sound. Yet I have lived most of my _yéni_ so far under the Shadow, and I find I am unused to living in a world of light.'

Gandalf reached over and clasped Legolas' forearm in a warrior's embrace.

'You have grown under the grasp of a long hard winter, my little Greenleaf, and that has strengthened you and made you what you are. But now you must unfurl, _penneth,_ and know that your Spring has come at last, and learn to soak up the sunlight you have waited so long to find.'

Legolas returned Gandalf's clasp of his forearm and turned eyes filled with gratitude and hope toward him. They stayed there a moment, one an ancient Maiar and the other a young Silvan Elf who had seen too much for his tally of years. They each marvelled in the unique fëa and wisdom of the other, though Legolas would have been surprised to know that the wonder and curiosity he felt towards Gandalf were reciprocated. Then Legolas laughed softly, and the moment passed, and he shook his head ruefully and said,

'Ai, Mithrandir! Eight centuries now you have known me, and still you have not exhausted your reserve of puns on my name.'

The corners of the wizard's eyes crinkled in response to this as he chuckled merrily,

'But of course, _penneth_! When your _Adar_ gifted you with such a marvellous opportunity, it would be a crime to waste it, would it not?'

'Believe me, Mithrandir,' Legolas rejoindered, still laughing, 'With you around, there is clearly no danger of that!'

They continued in this teasing vein for a while, before drifting into companionable silence as they gazed up at the stars side by side. Eventually Gandalf nudged Legolas slightly with an elbow and raised an eyebrow.

'Are you not tempted to take your reverie, my friend? This day has brought you pain and joy in equal measure, along with a lot to think about besides. Some rest may help to settle your spirit.'

'Aye, Mithrandir, I am tempted. I tried earlier, in fact, but found that the paths of reverie were closed to me. My mind would not relax into pleasant dreams but insisted on turning over images of a burning forest, of dying trees and elves, of a desperate last stand as my father and his people were surrounded by darkness.'

Gandalf took a moment to consider this but did not seem surprised by it. 'You intend to remain out here in the company of the stars tonight then rather than taking your bed?'

'Aye. Their fire brings warmth and comfort to my soul and drives away the inferno that haunts me.'

'Fighting fire with fire, I see your point.' Gandalf nodded his head in concession then abruptly turned on his heel and strode back into the house. 'I will return shortly.'

Knowing from long experience that the general rule with Gandalf is 'don't ask,' Legolas did not question this. He fixed his eyes instead upon Gil-Estel, and thought of the hope that had conquered evil, of his people's spirit which remained light in spite of approaching darkness, and thus drove away an insistent vision of the burning willows of the Queen's Garden.

When Gandalf returned with a bedroll, blankets and pillows, Legolas did not comment, simply watching with a sceptical expression as Gandalf prepared a nest in the corner of the balcony, at an angle from which the stars could still be seen. Once satisfied, he turned to his onlooker, and gave the explanation which was being silently requested by the Elf's raised eyebrow.

'You intend to remain in the company of the stars but I am sure they will allow you a moment of abstraction. I simply thought to make that moment of reverie a little more comfortable for my friend. Come.'

He beckoned Legolas over to the prepared blankets but the Elf shook his head. 'I thank you, Mithrandir, but I thought I made myself clear. My mind- it will not let go of its fears- it will not cease-'

Gandalf placed a guiding hand on Legolas' upper arm and began to steer him towards the blankets and cut him off.

'Your mind is insistent. Aye, you made that clear. And we speak of the mind of a Thranduilion, so it is too stubborn for anyone's good. But you forget one thing, _tithen las._ I-' and here he gave a dramatic pause and pulled himself up to his impressive full height, in a manner which had awed many elflings across the ages- 'am a wizard.'

Legolas laughed even as he found himself being firmly and inexorably settled into the blankets. 'Mithrandir, I see what you suggest and truly I am grateful, but- well, I could not…'

Gandalf jumped in as Legolas trailed off and positioned a pillow behind the Elf's head as he spoke. 'But what? You could not what? You could not possibly allow yourself to be as open and trusting as you once were, when an elfling clung to 'Mitadir's' leg like some strange giggling species of ivy and would not let go until he used his 'wizardy magic' to fill his reverie with wondrous visions. Is that it? Then truly I am saddened, Legolas _._ I would not lose that elfling for all the world.'

Gandalf brought his imposing eyebrows into effective use and fixed Legolas with a keen stare. The latter looked for a moment as if he were about to protest, but then sighed and nestled himself more comfortably into the blankets, tipping his head back to gaze on the stars.

'Nay, 'Mitadir.' You need not mourn that elfling. He is still here, and he thanks you.'

Gandalf beamed a smile of truly radiant joy as he knelt at the Elf's side. 'Then tonight, _mellon nîn,_ you shall witness not the last moments of Mirkwood but the early days of Greenwood the Great, and the paths of your dreams will meander through the trees you love as they were in their youthful vigour. How does that sound?'

Gandalf's answer was a pair of widened eyes and an enthusiastic nod, proving effectively that the elfling who had adored Gandalf all those centuries ago was very much still there within the present fearsome warrior. The wizard chuckled and gently laid a roughened palm across the Elf's brow.

'Look to the stars under which your forefathers awoke, son of Ilúvatar. See the Creator's gift to you and let lady Elbereth's light drive out the darkness in your heart. Now turn your mind to a great forest, springing up many centuries ago under the light of these very same stars…'

The wizard's murmuring voice slipped smoothly into a slow chant in the old Silvan dialect, describing the vast expanse of the forest, mysterious and beautiful under the starlight. Almost imperceptibly the chant became a song, a song of a wondrous forest in the making, the trees competing like eager young warriors, not stealing the space from each other but rather pushing all to greater heights and shared glory. The song worked like a spell, conjuring images of butterflies as big as your head making their way lazily across through the floral undergrowth, and herds of deer darting through the trees with quicksilver swiftness. Its music seemed to reflect the music of the forest, the hammering of the woodpeckers and the chattering the squirrels, the gentle rustling of leaves trembling in the light breeze. And Gandalf's song found an elven _fëa_ and guided it away from tendrils of shadow, to walk the broad canopied paths of the forest in those far-off days. Once the song had ended, he viewed with satisfaction the glazed eyes and even, almost imperceptible, breathing of an Elf in peaceful reverie, happily ensconced in dreams of his home as it once was.

He stood and retreated to the other side of the balcony and resumed the chewing of his pipe, contemplating the darkness that had been lifted in recent times- the darkness upon an entire forest as well as the darkness upon one soul. Before he left his charge, however, he had let his hand linger upon the crown of the golden head for a moment and whispered,

'Unfurl, little leaf, and be at peace. Your spring has come.'


	4. Together, then

_A/N Thanks to guest reviewer Earthdragon and the ever-faithful Shirebound for your reviews, you have both made me very happy, it's always lovely to hear what you think! So the messenger from Erebor has finally made it to Minas Tirith, I was going to go for less emotional high drama in Gimli's news, but then, well...this happened. Hope you enjoy!_

 **Chapter Four: Together, then**

 _One Week Later_

When Gimli was summoned urgently by the King late one afternoon, he tried to reason with himself that any number of things could have Aragorn wanting his immediate attention. But his thoughts kept turning to the one explanation which he both desired and dreaded.

Readied in a flurry of activity, he was midway through pushing the door open when he paused. Legolas was out consulting with Minas Tirith's gardeners on plans for replanting the city, and Gimli suddenly realised that he wanted the Elf to know where he was and what news he might be hearing. He was tempted to ignore this feeling and just go without letting anyone know, but he imagined what he would say to Legolas if the situation were reversed and chuckled at his own hypocrisy. So, he turned back, grabbed Pippin and asked him to inform Legolas of the circumstances. Pippin was concerned by this, and Gimli was hard-pressed to conceal his suspicions about why he had been summoned faced with the Hobbit's relentless questioning. He did not wish to voice them, not yet, since he did not want to get his hopes up for news only for them to be dashed again. Legolas, though, would infer how he had interpreted these events, and would hopefully be ready for his return, whether he came back with tidings or not. That prospect brought him more comfort than he would ever admit. With difficulty, he extricated himself from Pippin, left the house and strode towards the palace, ready to face whatever tidings might await him in the knowledge that he would not be doing it alone.

* * *

He returned late that evening to find Legolas waiting for him in the hallway. The Elf said nothing, questioning him far more effectively with a simple inquiring glance as he took Gimli's cloak and hung it up. Gimli answered the unspoken question.

'Tidings from Erebor.'

'And?'

'Victory…with grievous losses.'

'Ah. Which tells you everything even as it tells you nothing.'

Gimli met Legolas' eyes, and understanding wordlessly passed between them.

'Quite.'

Legolas' expression softened. 'Drink and discuss it? Or do you need some time to think it over?'

Gimli smiled in response to Legolas' gentle concern and respect for his wishes. 'Aye, lad, I'll have a drink with you, though you'll forgive me if I'm not the easiest of company tonight.'

Legolas laughed softly as they made their way towards the sitting room. 'I believe I set the bar for 'difficult company' rather high last week. You'll have to work hard to beat me on that score.'

With the hobbits already sleeping and Gandalf out on one of his mysterious errands, the sitting room was deserted and the two of them were soon settled comfortably in armchairs by the fire, Gimli with a mug of ale and Legolas with a glass of wine. Legolas simply waited for Gimli to begin.

'The most grievous of our losses is our king. Dáin has fallen.'

'Ai! That is grievous news indeed and I am sorry to hear it. Even before the War he earned my grudging respect for how he ruled the mountain, and indeed my father's, though that often went unvoiced.'

'Aye. A great king. And a greater friend.'

Legolas' expression of woe softened into one of pained sympathy.

'You were close, then,' he said quietly.

'Aye. He was good friends with my father. It was political, at first. He set out to prove that Erebor could reunite the Exiles, that he could be the King Under the Mountain and not just of the Iron Hills. So he made a point of taking all of the Dwarves from the Quest into his councils. But politics gave way to friendship, somewhere along the line, so I have fond memories of sitting with him, his son Thorin and my father of an evening, listening to them exchange tales. He always seemed certain of who he was, something deeper than his role as king, that's what impressed me most about him. His duties tempered his steel rather than pressed him into a different mould.'

'Then the loss is all the greater, and I mourn it with you.'

A few short months ago Gimli would have thought this comment could be nothing but sarcasm if it came from the mouth of an Elf. A few short months, however, had changed much. He looked now into Legolas' sincere and steady gaze, and smiled faintly, though his own eyes were troubled.

'My thanks. He died with the utmost honour; Dáin could do no less, of course, being who he was. He died as he lived: ready to give everything for the homeland he dreamt for us. I am told that he fought like a Dwarf possessed against the Orcs as they descended on the army fleeing Dale; his actions saved many lives during the retreat. I think, if he'd had the choice, he'd have wanted to go like that.'

'Then we celebrate his great deeds even as we mourn his passing.' On impulse, Legolas raised his glass. 'To Dáin, the King Under the Mountain indeed, the Dwarf who was forged by his destiny as the strongest tempered steel. To all those whom he defended and to those who fell beside him in that battle. May Aulë bless these his children.'

Gimli raised his mug of ale, his eyes misting over slightly. 'To Dáin. To a King, a father and a friend. May the songs remember his mighty deeds, but may they also remember _him_. May they remember his kindness, his love for the mountain and his people, his resilience against the shadow, his strength like the iron bones of the hills whence he hails. May Mahal take back into his arms this great Dwarf among his children.'

Solemnly, the vessels clinked together and they both drank. A slow smile crept over Gimli's face, as if at some private joke.

'What is it?' Legolas queried.

'Oh, just thinking what Dáin would say if he could see Thranduil's son proposing a toast to him.'

'And what would he say, do you think?'

Gimli chuckled, deep in his chest. 'Probably that if he knew you liked him this much, he would have instructed his delegates to haggle harder during our trade negotiations.'

Legolas picked up the lighter tone and mock-shuddered. ' _Elbereth_ forbid! I barely survived those negotiations as it was! And narrowly escaped death a second time when my father found out how much I'd conceded!'

'The Elf who can't be fazed by the shades of the dead, cowed by a Dwarf who won't leave the council chamber until he's secured that fifteen percent reduction. Ha! Always knew there must be something you were secretly afraid of!'

Legolas held up his hands good-humouredly, keeping the banter lighter than usual as he could see that though Gimli was endeavouring to be mirthful, his smile did not quite reach his eyes.

'Alas! You have found me out, then, and I trust you will be honourable enough not to use it against me. Dáin's son Thorin takes up the mantle of kingship, I presume?'

'Aye. He has been a good friend to me also. He will rule well and do his father proud, I have no doubts about that.'

Legolas nodded and smiled a little absently, his mind drifting years back to tense exchanges with the Prince of Erebor in a small stone chamber, his limbs aching from attempting to remain in a dignified pose on a diminutive chair, learning the hard way that even the patience of an immortal can be sorely tried by that of Dwarves when it comes to trade negotiations. Out loud, he said,

'Aye. That tenacity will serve him well indeed.'

Gimli, guessing what Legolas was remembering, gave a soft chuckle, before quieting and becoming serious again.

'The King Under the Mountain is dead,' he announced with solemnity, his voice a little throaty.

Legolas caught his intention immediately, and together they raised their glasses again in salute to the occupant of the throne under the Lonely Mountain.

'Long live the King,' two voices chimed, the light Elvish tenor the perfect counterpart to the deep Dwarvish baritone. They drank again in silence, and Gimli's countenance seemed to darken a little over the following minutes of quiet as he stared into the hearth fire. Legolas would have been content to wait for Gimli to tell him whatever needed to be told, but observing his friend, he realised that the Dwarf seemed not to be meditating on something but rather, brooding on it. He was also painfully aware of one subject which Gimli had not mentioned at all: his family. Eventually he decided that perhaps a little nudge might help rather than hinder matters.

'Gimli,' he began softly with unusual hesitancy, for him. 'Was there more?'

'As I said before,' Gimli replied a little gruffly. 'Grievous losses, whatever in Mahal's name that's supposed to mean. They invaded Dale and the Dwarves came to its aid, but they were overwhelmed and the survivors, Dwarves and Men, retreated to Erebor where they were besieged. King Brand fell alongside King Dáin in that assault.'

Gimli paused and bowed his head while Legolas hissed a soft _Ai!_ and murmured a prayer in Sindarin.

'It may have gone ill had the Ring not been destroyed when it was. It was the fall of Sauron which dismayed the enemy forces and rallied ours to finally rout them. King Thorin's first great battle and a resounding success, so I hear.'

Gimli's voice was tinged with an almost wistful pride as he spoke of Thorin's achievements, but it darkened again almost immediately.

'But though all ended well, the whole affair was close. Too close.'

Legolas could not contest this. One Orc slipping through the guards and into Dale would have qualified as too close; what had actually come to pass was much, much worse. Legolas simply dipped his head in acknowledgement and said, 'I know, _mellon nín_.'

They lapsed into silence again and Legolas reflected on the fact that Gimli had deflected the unspoken question about his family, although he had almost certainly 'heard' it. Gimli was fidgeting now, twisting one of his rings up and over his knuckle and back down again, and that strange, brooding expression was back on his face. Legolas decided to try again.

'Did the messenger bring any personal correspondence?' he asked, alarmed by the way Gimli seemed to flinch at the question. 'Like I had?' he added more quietly.

Gimli exhaled sharply. 'Aye,' he said shortly and averted his eyes from Legolas, who tried not to sigh. He would not press Gimli to share the details of his family grief, knowing how sensitive Dwarves could be in these matters, however much he thought that his friend needed to do so. He waited, hoping that Gimli would be forthcoming, and frowned when the Dwarf actually seemed to colour slightly. Perhaps it was the firelight…but no, that was definitely a blush on Gimli's cheeks! Silent tears, angry oaths, an explosion of the grief he had clearly been hiding would not have surprised Legolas- but what reason would Gimli have to be embarrassed?

Sensing Legolas' scrutiny, and flicking his eyes up to see his puzzled frown, Gimli huffed again in irritation, and then finally seemed to resign himself to something.

'I, ah…' he began, the blush deepening, 'I haven't opened it yet.'

Legolas' eyes widened for only a fraction of a second in surprise, but his expression settled as things clicked into place and he suddenly realised that he understood Gimli very, very well indeed.

'It's ridiculous, I know that,' Gimli continued hurriedly, as though eager to explain himself, 'when I've been waiting weeks for precisely this message, but I wanted to bring it home to open. The messenger earlier, it was one of ours, rather than a returning Gondorian. Lad named Snórri, don't know him too well, but when he gave me the letter, he- well, there was an apology in his eyes, plain as ink on parchment. And Dwarves, when we don't have immediate kin around us, we tend to mourn alone. If it was bad, I didn't want it to be public, and I don't know Snórri well enough to want him there when I find out.'

'Understood, of course. Do you wish for some privacy so that you might open it now?' Legolas asked, suspecting that this was not really the problem but wanting to give Gimli the choice. Gimli hesitated, not wanting to explain himself further but feeling he would have to if he rejected the offered solitude.

'Nay, lad, you have my thanks, but it's not that, it's…' Gimli's voice trailed off and he stared down at his feet, clearly unsure of what to say next or feeling himself unable to say it.

 _Come on, Gimli,_ Legolas silently willed him on, _you should know after last week that I cannot judge you for this. You should know by now that I will never judge you for anything, mellon nín. Break through this misplaced shame and say it, it's never as bad as you think it will be._ Part of him yearned to say all this out loud, but he understood implicitly that this was Gimli's private battle to fight, and that his presumption to know what was wrong might irritate him, so he shouted out his encouragements in his heart and waited.

At last, Gimli whispered, 'I don't know if I can bring myself…'

Legolas took pity on him. He had begun to confess and thus won the all-important inner battle, so Legolas helped him gladly now. 'To open it, you mean?'

'Aye.' The word itself was a mighty sigh, sad yet tinged with relief. Legolas would have smiled had the moment not been so bittersweet.

'I do know this makes no sense,' Gimli went on, trying to rationalise what he felt to be an irrational behaviour. 'But I dread finding out what Snórri was apologising for. Because until I open it, they're all still alive, as I remember them. They're still alive until I know, and to open it would be to kill them, whoever it is…' his voice trailed off into a whisper.

Legolas' heart ached to hear this terrible dread voiced but forced himself to hide his distress for the sake of his companion. 'I see,' he said, his voice low and understanding.

'And what do you see?' Gimli replied, bitterness thickly lacing his voice. 'That Dwarves are cowards as you were always told we were? That despite fighting three of the greatest battles of the age, your pathetic comrade is overcome by a scroll of parchment?'

'No,' Legolas shot back. 'I see that you, my brave and stalwart friend, stand now in the same position I was in two weeks ago, when I was pacing in the library, reading one sentence over and over again, trying to convince myself it could not possibly mean the devastating thing I thought it said. Then you walked in and I had the chance to tell you all, to unburden my soul of the sudden trauma it had experienced. You remember what I did?'

This elicited the faintest of smiles from Gimli. 'You…were not at your politest.'

'Indeed I was not. Because saying it would have made it real, it would have meant that this scroll wasn't a mirage, or a lie, or a mistake, and as soon as those words left my mouth my friends would categorically have died. In truth, it felt that by saying it, I would be the one to kill them. So I didn't say it, and I didn't tell you we won either, because acknowledging that would mean knowing that I trusted this missive, and that everything it said was true. So I refused to face up to it and sent you packing. And how did that turn out?'

'You faced it in the end and told me.'

'Not quite how it happened. You refused to let me carry it on my own, remember you told me that? You let me do it in my own time, but you were there. You were by my side and we faced it together. And that,'

He locked his gaze with Gimli's, crossed the room and crouched in front of him so their eyes were level.

'That is what I would like us to do with this, if you would like it too, _mellon nín._ Face it together.'

When Gimli did not respond, simply looking stricken, Legolas hurried to specify what he meant by this.

'It doesn't have to be now, if you don't want. When you're ready. And I know your practice of only mourning alone or with immediate kin. Perhaps I could be by your side as you open it and then leave before you start reading, stand guard and make sure no-one disturbs you? Just tell me what you need from me, and it is done.'

'Nay,' Gimli said in a quiet, almost broken voice and Legolas frowned with confusion and a little hurt. 'Nay, you wouldn't have to leave, I mean,' Gimli clarified quickly, and then swallowed hard before making his next statement. 'There is no nearer kin than brother of the heart.'

Legolas had to fight back his own overwhelming emotions at hearing these words, and under different circumstances he would have been beaming. He settled with smiling softly and saying,

'You honour me greatly by naming me such, my brother of the heart, and in offering to share your grief with me. If you wish me beside you, then I am there.'

Gimli inclined his head briefly in acknowledgement. 'My thanks.' He reached into his belt pouch and pulled out a sealed, cylindrical roll of parchment. He held it in both hands, which were trembling, almost imperceptibly to someone who wasn't looking. Legolas, however, noticed it.

'When do you intend on opening it?' he asked gently, not wanting to push Gimli too much but neither wanting him to have this dread hanging over him for too long.

'I…tomorrow morning, perhaps. I might deal with it better, whatever it is, after I'm rested.'

Legolas nodded. 'As you wish. But will you sleep, with it unopened?'

Gimli sighed heavily. 'Nay, I will not. I'm procrastinating, am I not?'

Legolas gave him a sad smile. 'Just a little, brother mine. And believe me, I understand why.'

Gimli straightened a little, looking down at the parchment with a new resolve. 'Well, this won't do, then. Best get it over with.' He brought his thumb near to the seal but stopped abruptly, his hand frozen in place.

'Whatever is communicated within this message has already happened. It is already real, and you do not make it so by knowing of it. Dismiss thoughts of that nature if they are plaguing you,' Legolas advised softly but urgently.

'Aye,' Gimli agreed, but his hand stayed locked in place where it was. He caught Legolas' eye and suggested hesitantly, 'If you don't mind…how about together?'

Legolas brought his hand to the parchment on the opposite side of the seal, looking back at Gimli with a questioning eyebrow raised, inquiring whether this was what he meant. At Gimli's nod, he said,

'Together, then. Shall we?'

'Aye.'

So together Dwarvish and Elvish thumbs worked at the seal until it broke, and a Dwarvish hand an Elvish one unrolled it until it was stretched out open in Gimli's lap. Legolas stepped back to allow him to read the runes within. His heart was racing as he scanned Gimli's face in anticipation, waiting for him to reach whatever had caused that apology in Snórri's eyes. He had no doubts that it would be there. There is a peculiar expression worn by those imparting news of a bereavement, sorrow and pity and compassion all too evident in their gaze. For those who have fought, it is unmistakeable- they have worn it themselves too many times. So Legolas waited, convinced that Gimli had read Snórri's expression aright, though dearly hoping for his sake that he had been wrong.

Legolas knew the instant Gimli had seen it. He saw his eyes widen as they scanned the page, his body slump in despair and his breaths quicken. And the sound that issued next from Gimli's mouth was one that would haunt him for the rest of his long immortal life.

It was a cry similar to that he gave at Balin's tomb, yet this time even more heartrending, if that were possible. It was a wordless yell of grief and rage and desolation, a challenge to the world that would so brutally tear loved ones apart, a response to news so terrible there was nothing to do but roar. It was the sound you would hear if you listened to a heart as it broke.

Legolas was back by his side in an instant, catching that awful letter as it fell from shaking hands and setting it aside, intercepting those hands where they were tugging painfully at Gimli's hair and guiding them to twist themselves in his own tunic instead. Gimli was weeping in earnest now, releasing not only the sadness and shock at his news but also the dread which had built up before he found out. Kneeling in front of his chair, Legolas embraced him and simply allowed him to cry. Gimli drew back a little for a moment, clearly feeling the need to explain, and before Legolas could reassure him this was unnecessary, he had rasped out the two terrible words.

'My nephew.'

Nodding in understanding to avoid speaking around the lump in his throat, Legolas drew him closer again and the Dwarf sobbed fiercely into his shoulder. Soon his own tears had joined Gimli's, tears of compassion for his friend's grief, tears of anger that so many young mortals had been claimed by this war, and also tears of sorrow for his own losses, which were still very much open wounds. A clattering on the stairs told him they had woken the hobbits, and soon enough Pippin was in the doorway with a candle, his eyes wide and his face pale as he regarded the scene, Sam hovering anxiously behind him. Still unsure of his ability to speak, Legolas simply shook his head at them, imploring them with his eyes to let them be. Still they hesitated, and Legolas realised that he didn't exactly appear to be at the peak of emotional stability either at this point. Gimli felt the movement and looked up at the hobbits, trying and failing to muster a smile for them.

'Bad news from home, lads. Tell you in the morning?'

Hearing Gimli's quavering voice, Legolas was instantly ashamed that he had not tried harder to deal with this so Gimli didn't have to. He cleared his throat.

'We will be fine, we just need some time. Thanks for coming down.' His traitorous voice still shook a little, and he saw the hobbits look at each other dubiously. They seemed to come a decision, though, and Pippin said,

'All right then. Are you sure we can't do anything to help? Bring you a hot drink or something?' They both shook their heads, and Pippin began to draw back, 'I'm so sorry about your news, Gimli.'

'Aye, we're sorry for your loss. The both of yous,' Sam chimed in, with a keen glance at Legolas.

Legolas thanked them and guided Gimli back into his embrace, and the hobbits took it as the sign of dismissal it was, heading back upstairs presumably to report their findings to Merry and Frodo. The pair in the sitting room continued to hold each other and weep for a while, until at last they had both cried themselves out and broke apart. Legolas turned to build up the fire again, both to compose himself a little and to give Gimli some privacy to do the same. He glanced behind him once and saw that Gimli had taken up the letter again and was reading it with furrowed brow. Legolas' heart was in his mouth as he wondered whether there would be another harsh blow to endure in the remainder of it, but he forced himself not to stare. He heard a couple of hitched breaths, but when he finally turned around, Gimli had set the letter down and was holding himself with impressive control, though he still looked a little pale and shaken. Gimli met Legolas' gaze, gave a weak smile, and remarked,

'Well, that's four curious hobbits who'll be wanting explanations tomorrow.'

'Curious and sympathetic hobbits, aye. Prepare to be fed within an inch of your life over the next few days.'

Gimli made a sound which started as a chuckle but ended in a sort of strangled sob. Legolas continued.

'You don't owe them any explanations though, however curious they are. You don't owe me any explanations. Talk about it when you feel you need to, when you're ready. I'll listen when you need it. Just say the word.'

'My thanks, again. But I think, now I've worked up to reading it, I need to say it out loud; release it, almost, so I can accept it's real.'

'Of course. Tell me what happened.'

'Losing my nephew was the worst of it. My parents live but my father took a leg injury and will need a cane for the rest of his life. My mother writes that those attempting to coddle him risk being whacked with the cane he's supposed to be walking with, and that is a comforting thing to hear, strange as it sounds; I know things are well when Da is being cantankerous. Our old weapons master fell, name of Hrór, and he was a much beloved teacher. One of my frequent work partners from the forges died too, dependable fellow named Brerin. And of course, my…my nephew. Orin, his name is. No, no, his name _was_ Orin.'

'Don't trouble yourself about that right now,' Legolas reminded him gently. 'I know what you mean.'

'He was my cousin, actually, but he was so much younger, grew up calling me Uncle Gimli so I've always seen him as my nephew. He's Oín's son- oh _Mahal…'_

Gimli had suddenly gone chalk-white.

'Gimli, what is it? Tell me, what's wrong?'

When he spoke again, his voice faltered a little but he got his explanation out.

'Oín's wife, Tóra. She has just lost her only son. And Oín fell in Moria- I have the Book of Mazarbul- when I get back- I'm going to have to tell her…how she was widowed.' (1)

Legolas sucked in his breath and reached out to grasp his friend's forearm in an anchoring hold.

'Ai, Gimli! I am sorry.'

Gimli shook his head. 'Nay. Thinking of that…my sorrow is nothing compared to hers. To lose a son and then have her husband's death confirmed soon after.'

'It is a terrible loss, aye. But that does not make yours any less valid. You cared for him, I can see that.'

'Aye. I used to mind him when he was just a wee lad. Then later on, he was my apprentice: great lad, willing to learn, had a way with the iron. I was going to ask him to work on the Minas Tirith gates, I'd thought about how excited he'd be, how proud- his first big commission…'

Gimli's voice trailed off again, and Legolas stayed silent this time, allowing him time to get himself under control.

'He was only 62,' Gimli whispered. 'That's how old I was when they went to reclaim Erebor and they didn't let me go because I was _too young_ to go out into danger _._ And he was too young as well, too young for any of this, but he had no choice because the danger came right to his home. There's no justice in it, none at all.'

His voice had risen as he spoke, until he was almost shouting, needing to vent his anger at a world that would cruelly end the life of a promising young ironsmith who wanted nothing but to defend his home. Legolas just nodded, not attempting to calm him, knowing he needed this release.

'And he did so well, my father writes,' he continued, pride swelling in his voice. 'He fought to defend Dale even though Tóra begged him not to go out. He made it back, bruised but alive, survived the siege, only to fall to a desperate Easterling in the final charge against the attackers. How in Middle Earth can that be fair?'

Gimli had curled his hands into fists and was breathing heavily with the pent-up rage.

'It's not,' Legolas said quietly. 'It's not fair at all.'

With another strangled yell, Gimli surged to his feet, grabbed his now-empty tankard and hurled it so that it collided with the wall in an almighty crash. He blinked a few times, breathing hard, as if processing what he had just done. A few more angry tears escaped him and he swatted them away furiously with the heels of his hands.

'If I had Sauron before me to kill…' he growled, his hands flexing as if itching to resurrect the fallen Enemy so that he could inflict a suitably slow and painful death.

'You'd have to fight me first for the pleasure,' Legolas said in a chillingly soft voice, his eyes glinting dangerously. The two formidable warriors regarded each other in understanding, both of them aware that their grief was allowing their oft-suppressed darker impulses of vengeance and bloodlust to rear their ugly heads. Then the moment passed, and Gimli unfurled his fingers slowly, and sank heavily back into his chair.

'But even that still couldn't bring them back,' he said wearily, and at the same moment the fey gleam in Legolas' eyes vanished as if it never was.

'Aye,' he agreed. 'Our unrestrained anger honours them not, however tempting it is to let it consume us.'

'I hate how helpless this makes me feel,' Gimli grumbled, his anger drained out of him leaving only weary resignation in its place. 'That the Enemy can do something so terrible to my family, and I'm leagues away, and all I can do is _know it happened._ I couldn't defend him, I couldn't avenge him, I couldn't grieve with them, they'll already have buried him so I couldn't even go to the funeral. What am I supposed to do now?'

'Whatever feels right,' Legolas advised. 'You need to find a way to let go of it. Believe me, I know how this feels and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy, let alone my brother of the heart. I felt a little lost too, when I first heard. You know that our people often voice our grief in song; the day I found out, eventually I went up to the balcony and sang the laments for them. It made me feel connected to them and to my grieving kin, even though we were far apart. What would your family have done to mourn him?'

'A vigil,' Gimli replied. 'The Dwarf who has died is laid out in a chamber and his loved ones gather around him. They spend a night there, by the light of a single candle, and they sit in silence with their memories of him. Each is alone with their own thoughts, yet they are together in their grief. It is very profound.'

'I do not doubt it,' Legolas replied. 'Do you wish to do something similar tonight? We could light a candle and you could sit your vigil and remember; or perhaps it would be better for you to sleep now and do that another night, if you wish.'

'I will not sleep tonight,' Gimli replied, shaking his head, and Legolas knew better than to try to force the issue. 'And I think…I would like that. I will go to fetch a candle.' Filled with a new purpose, Gimli headed off to complete his task while Legolas set about extinguishing the fire. Soon after, Gimli was settled in his chair again, eyes fixed on the single candle flame as it flickered. Legolas suddenly felt a little awkward, unsure of whether or not he was intruding.

'Gimli, do you wish me to leave? I will stay if you want but if you need to be alone…'

'The thing about these vigils,' Gimli interrupted suddenly in a musing tone, making Legolas wonder if he'd actually heard the question at all, 'is that everyone has their own grief, their own memories, so it is something highly personal.'

Legolas rose to leave, interpreting this as his dismissal. But Gimli carried on.

'But no creature escapes the clutches of grief, and everyone there is in the throes of the same pain, so it is also something shared, a deep connection between us all.'

Gimli finally turned his eyes from the candle to look at his friend. 'So it would feel strange to sit a vigil like this alone, even if it is by nature silent. I was wondering…I know it is a Dwarvish custom, but perhaps if you wished to remember those you have lost? I would welcome your company.'

'Different memories, but the same pain of loss. Aye, my brother, I will sit vigil with you, and remember them. I can think of no greater honour to bestow on my loved ones who have gone to Mandos.'

Legolas settled himself in the chair again, and Gimli's lip quirked in the nearest thing he could manage to a smile at a time like this.

'Together, then. Shall we?' he asked gruffly, not quite managing to conceal the unsteadiness in his voice.

'Aye,' Legolas replied, smiling gently back.

Silence descended, and they lost themselves in their individual memories, of Dwarven forges and Elven archery ranges, even as they shared a pain that went deeper than any divisions of race.

And thus they sat through the night, as the candle steadily burnt down, alone in their grief and yet not so, until finally the flame sputtered out just as the first light of dawn began to trickle through the window.

* * *

(1) The Book of Mazarbul reports that Oín was taken by the Watcher in the Water outside Moria.


	5. The Mystery of Peregrin Took

_A/N Merry Christmas everyone! Huge thanks to Shirebound, UnnamedElement and Bookworm-soul for your reviews, they are wonderful Christmas gifts and encourage me greatly. I know I predicted 6 or 7 chapters for this, but actually this one ends at a really natural point, so I'll be leaving it here for the main fic dealing with the immediate aftermath of Legolas and Gimli's grievous tidings. However, it's not completely over yet: there is an epilogue in production featuring the Three Hunters talking love, loss, and the beginning of the Age of Men. It might not be next week but I'll try to get it out as soon as I can in between all the general craziness of the season. Continued thanks to my beta Ink Stained Quill for providing some wonderful sparks that set my imagination aflame for this chapter. May all your tidings this season be joyful, dear readers, and enjoy the chapter!_

 **Chapter Five: The Mystery of Peregrin Took**

The silence in the room continued after the candle flame had died and the sky had lightened outside; Legolas was unsure of exactly how one ended a Dwarven mourning ritual such as this one and was happy to let Gimli take the lead. The two friends caught each other's eyes for the first time since the vigil had begun and shared a tiny smile of companionship in grief, before looking away again and beginning to bring themselves back from the realms of memory they had wandered in. Soon enough they heard sounds of stirring upstairs, and Gimli heaved a mighty sigh and closed his eyes. Then he began a slow chant in Khuzdul.

Legolas was entranced. Aside from his war cry, he had never heard Gimli speak his native language before and he knew what an honour it was for a Dwarf to share this with an outsider. The language itself was so different from Elvish, a percussive explosion of polysyllables and harsh consonants. But still, it had a musical quality about it, a deep rhythmic beat which Legolas was sure he would not have heard if Khuzdul had been spoken to him earlier in his life; simply because he would not have really listened. Unlike Elvish, the language did not convey images to the minds of those who did not understand it; an uninitiated listener would struggle to make out any details of a tale in Khuzdul. But Legolas was stunned by how emotionally moved he was by Gimli's chant, even without comprehending a single syllable of what was said. The tone was melancholy, bittersweet, and so achingly poignant that Legolas found himself silently weeping without even really knowing why.

Finally Gimli brought his chant to a conclusion and let out a long, slow breath as he opened his eyes. Legolas wiped away his tears and turned to look at him, observing that the Dwarf was calm and had an air of peace about him, a welcome replacement from the anguish of the previous night. He realised then that he himself felt more peaceful than he could remember being since hearing from Eryn Lasgalen. The night spent remembering happy times with their loved ones had been cathartic for them both.

'Well, that was a mighty good idea, laddie. Thank you.' Gimli said at last.

'Nay, thank you. It is your people's ritual and I am honoured that you shared it with me. It helped me to put things into perspective and remember how blessed I have been by the time with my friends, so now I can think of them without being overwhelmed with sorrow at their loss. It is a beautiful custom.'

'You are very welcome, though I would not have thought to do it had you not prompted me. I would have simply seen it as another mourning ritual I had missed because I was away from my kin. Thank you for helping me to see that there was a way to work out my grief here, if I only looked for it.'

'Simply personal experience, _mellon nín._ It gladdens my heart to know that my sorrow at least has been good for one thing, if it has helped you through yours.'

'I would still have spared you this though, were it in my power,' Gimli protested.

'Likewise, friend Gimli,' Legolas replied, and they briefly clasped forearms in a gesture symbolising the companionship which had only grown deeper since the previous night. They were content to remain in companionable silence for a while after that, watching the room grow steadily lighter and stretching their stiff limbs. Soon the tell-tale noises of Sam thumping down the stairs then working on first breakfast in the kitchen could be heard, followed soon after by the quick patter of Pippin's footsteps. Legolas caught a flash of a head of chestnut curls in the doorway but before he could call out a greeting it vanished. A little while after, his sharp elvish hearing picked up a whispered dispute coming from the kitchen end of the corridor.

'I still don't see why I have to go first, Mr Pippin!'

'Because this was your idea initially and there's nothing to worry about anyway, they'll like it, it's a nice thing to do!'

'But what if we're interrupting something important? It's gone so awful quiet in there.'

'All the more reason to go in and see if they're all right!'

'I want to help as much as you do, but what if they're in some magic Elvish trance or the like?'

'Then we'll have to break it off for some plain hobbit sense, won't we? Look, you _saw_ them yesterday evening Sam, and they must have stayed down here all night. They can send us away again if they need to, but we can't leave them alone like this.'

'We should see they're all right, I agree with that, but Mr Pippin, that still doesn't explain why I'm going first.'

'Because you're Samwise the Brave and you're jolly well brave enough to walk into your own sitting room and offer your friends a cup of tea, that's why!'

Inside the living room, Gimli looked on in puzzlement as a small smile grew on Legolas' face and he cocked his head as if listening to something. He gave a little choked laugh at Pippin's last comment, winked at an increasingly bemused Gimli, and then called out loudly,

'Rest assured, no magic Elvish trances are taking place here. And if someone is in the mood to make us some tea, we would be most appreciative.'

He heard Pippin's surprised laugh and his whispered ' _See,_ Sam!', more footsteps and then a crimson-faced Sam appeared in the doorway, bearing two cups of tea, followed quickly by Pippin, who was sporting a cheeky grin and seemed completely unembarrassed about being overheard.

'You'd think we'd remember about an Elf's hearing now we live with one, but apparently not!'

'I'm glad of that, Pippin, otherwise I couldn't catch you out every now and then, and where would be the fun in that?' Legolas said with a mischievous smile, setting Pippin's heart at ease about his elven companion at least.

Sam set his burdens down on the table and immediately launched into his apologies.

'Ever so sorry about disturbing your peace, sirs, we should have remembered we might be heard in the corridor. It's not like we wanted to intrude or anythin', but well, we were worried and-'

'Sam,' Gimli cut him off from his ramblings and caught his eye in his gentle gaze, 'you have nothing to apologise for. We are very grateful for your concern and we concluded what we were doing ere you came down, so you have not interrupted anything at all and we appreciate your company.'

'Gimli speaks for me,' Legolas added. 'And the tea was a kind thought, thank you both.'

Sam twisted his hands a little. 'It's no bother at all, sirs. You both look a sight better than you did last night, if you don't mind me saying. Are you both all right?'

Gimli responded with an 'aye', whilst Legolas looked at his companion searchingly and murmured, 'we will be.'

Sam frowned as he looked from one to the other as if unsure which one to believe.

Pippin, unable to contain his curiosity when it was combined with a desire to help his friends, blurted out, 'have you been here all night?'

'Aye,' Gimli explained. 'We sat a vigil for our comrades and kinfolk who fell in the War in the North.'

'Oh. Terribly sorry for both your losses,' Pippin said gravely. Sam simply bowed his head in respect.

'You have our thanks, both of you,' Legolas assured them whilst Gimli nodded solemnly in assent.

After a few moments of silence, Sam seemed to come to a decision about something. Then he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin resolutely in what the Fellowship had dubbed his 'Samwise Gamgee is about to take charge of your welfare' pose. It was usually Frodo who was on the receiving end of this, but all of the others had experienced it at some point during the Quest and they knew that resisting it was as about as ineffective as trying to close your mind to Galadriel.

'Well, I do know you're both grieving, and grief can do funny things to a body's appetite, but I think if you've been up all night a spot o' breakfast will do you both a world o' good. Come on through to the kitchen and I'll rustle you up something hot.'

'Really, Sam, there's no need-' Gimli started to say, but Legolas interrupted him.

'Actually, Sam, that's a wonderful idea. I am rather hungry, thank you. Come, Gimli. Let us take this hobbit up on his generous offer.'

Gimli shot him a baleful glance but realised that between the Elf and two hobbits he was probably going to get little say in the matter. So he and Legolas rose and picked up their tea, earning them a satisfied nod from Sam, and followed him and Pippin into the kitchen.

Once Sam's attention was captured by his clattering pots and the distractions of Pippin, who kept getting under his feet, Legolas leaned over to Gimli and whispered conspiratorially, 'And so the feeding commences. Brace yourself.'

And despite feeling that it was terribly inappropriate and disrespectful under the circumstances, Gimli found himself fighting the strange, giddy urge to laugh.

* * *

In short order, Legolas, Gimli and Pippin had been supplied with steaming plates of thickly buttered toasted muffins, fried mushrooms and scrambled eggs. Legolas tucked enthusiastically into his, hoping to encourage Gimli to do the same, but the Dwarf had subdued his sudden rush of mirth and was picking at his food and chasing it round his plate rather than eating it.

'Is there owt wrong with the food, Gimli? Can I get you something different?' Sam asked anxiously.

'Nay, it's marvellous, as always. Just not really hungry, that's all.'

Sam's brows creased a little, and Pippin looked up from his own wholehearted attack on his breakfast to say, 'That's not like you at all, Gimli. Is this about what you heard last night?'

Gimli sighed and set down his cutlery. 'I've just heard that my young cousin Orin, whom I love as a nephew, died in the defence of Erebor.'

Sam sat down opposite him and put his smaller hand on top of Gimli's, wordlessly showering him with the compassion that the usual formulaic words felt too trite to express. Pippin reached out and grabbed his other hand and squeezed it, the usual look of sparkling mischief in his eyes replaced by a wholehearted sincerity as he simply breathed, 'Oh _Gimli.'_

Gimli gave them both a short little nod of acknowledgement, a sort of simultaneous _thank you_ and an _I'm fine, really_ and then continued,

'It doesn't feel right that after I found out he died like that, I just carry on as if it doesn't matter, sitting here eating breakfast like I would any other morning.'

'It does matter to you, we can all see that,' Legolas consoled him. 'You don't need to starve yourself to prove it. You do Orin no disrespect by simply eating breakfast; quite the opposite, in fact. He clearly loved you, so surely you would honour his wishes by taking care of yourself.'

'That would make sense, wouldn't it,' Gimli agreed, in a slightly ironic tone. 'I know it's irrational, but it just…feels wrong.'

'And it probably will, whatever we say' Sam said gently. 'But do your best to get some of it down you anyway, if you can. There's no thinking clearly on an empty stomach.' He patted Gimli's hand as he got up again. 'Well, let's see if some bacon'll tempt you, never known you refuse that before. There's not much in, mind, I need to hunt down some more soon, but I'll see what I can do.'

And, deaf to all Gimli's protests, Sam was soon engaged in his next culinary mission. As he did this, the other hobbits wandered into the kitchen, Frodo yawning occasionally but otherwise alert, though Merry was only just aware enough not to be sleepwalking. Legolas and Gimli were quick to apologise for the disturbances of the previous night and the hobbits were even quicker to forbid them from worrying about it. As Frodo sat down, Legolas noticed that he was looking a little puffy around the eyes.

'Are you well, Frodo?' he asked with concern.

'Me? Oh, yes, I'm fine. It was just a bit of a shock to hear the news last night, and I was thinking of poor Bilbo and how he was going to take it.'

He turned to Gimli.

'But of course that must be nothing to what you're feeling, I can't even begin to imagine. I'm so sorry, Gimli.'

Elf and Dwarf exchanged confused glances.

'Wait, Frodo, how do you know? And I wasn't aware that Bilbo was close to Orin,' Gimli asked, frowning.

Frodo frowned back. 'Who's Orin? Sam just said it was bad news from Erebor and Gimli was upset, so I assumed…'

'You thought Erebor had fallen to Sauron's armies.' Legolas worked it out and Frodo nodded, hope beginning to spark in his eyes. 'Hasn't it?'

'Nay, lad, Erebor stands and they won in the end. But my nephew Orin, and two other friends, died in the doing of it,' Gimli explained.

There was a joint intake of breath from Frodo and Merry and they both gave him their condolences, which he accepted with his own gruff sort of grace. Sam swooped down and deposited some perfectly fried bacon rashers on Gimli's plate.

'I'm sorry for having so little faith, Gimli. I should have known the Dwarves would prevail,' Frodo said a little shamefacedly.

'Don't apologise, Frodo, in fact, you've reminded me of something very important.'

He paused a moment and his companions looked at him expectantly.

'Erebor stands. My parents live, and so does my friend Prince Thorin, who is now King Thorin III. I do grieve for Orin, Brerin and Hrór and there were no doubt many others who fell and will be greatly missed. But Erebor stood against Sauron and emerged battered but unbowed. His forces could not break us, and I will not let what he has done to my family break me now. I will be grateful for the mercies Mahal has blessed us with, for they are many. Erebor _stands._ Ha!'

Perhaps it was a combination of emotional exhaustion and grief-induced light-headedness finally breaking through his defences, but Gimli's mood took a sudden lift as the euphoria of Erebor's victory finally claimed him. He smiled triumphantly and attacked his breakfast with gusto, as if to show Sauron that he was here, a living, healthy Dwarf, and he intended to stay that way, even if it were solely to spite him.

'Hear hear,' Merry chimed in sleepily, having been woken up a little by Gimli's outburst. He lifted his teacup lazily in salute.

'Do you even know what you're toasting, Merry?' Pippin looked at his bleary-eyed cousin in amusement.

''Course I do.' Merry yawned. 'Erebor stands. Sauron was a silly ass to try it and the Dwarves gave him what for.'

Merry would probably have phrased this more respectfully had he been more awake, but he was one of those hobbits whose brain needed the first cup of tea in his system in the morning before it would deign to begin filtering duties. Nervous laughter around the table quickly grew more relaxed when Gimli looked up from shovelling bacon into his mouth and grinned at Merry.

'Exactly, lad. Got it in one.'

* * *

Ignoring Legolas' not so subtle suggestions that he should really get some sleep, Gimli retreated after breakfast to his workroom. It was a small utility room at the back of the house which Gimli had immediately adopted as his space to sketch plans for the city and to work on his smaller whittling and carving projects. He spent most of the day there, finding the space that was his and his alone helpful to ground him as he came to terms with all that had happened to his home. His euphoria from breakfast faded quickly, but returned at random moments, making him long to be quaffing ale in the great feasting halls of Erebor, there with his kin celebrating their victory over evil. However, as he luxuriated in these imaginings, he would be reminded with a pang of the faces that would be forever absent from those halls: Orin, Brerin, Hrór, and doubtless more of whose deaths he had not yet been informed. The letter remained open on the table, and often he strode over to it and snatched it up, as if convinced that of course he had made a mistake, and this time he would read it with proper care and discover that it had simply been a misunderstanding – it could not possibly say that Orin had died. On finding that of course the letter said what it always had, with awful, brutal undeniability, sometimes he would fling it away in disgust, and other times simply sink down with his back against the wall, clutching the parchment with whitened knuckles and bowing his head in despair. On several occasions, he attempted to distract himself with work, and found it effective for short periods of time in which he would whittle with purposeful strokes or sketch with frenetic energy. Invariably, though, the reality of the situation would burst through the fragile shield of occupation, and he would freeze, sometimes in mid-stroke of his whittling knife, no longer able to focus on anything but the vision of the cheerful, lively Orin gasping his last breaths on a desolate battlefield.

By the end of the day, Gimli could near-recite his letter and the table was littered with half-finished sketches and carvings in various stages of completion. The meals which had been brought to him at lunch and dinner had been nibbled at but left uneaten for the most part, the plates being put to use as paperweights to secure piles of gate designs rather than serving their intended purpose. Apart from this, the others had generally let him be, apparently understanding his need for this time to straighten things out in his head and knowing that solitude was an integral part of Dwarven mourning customs.

He was surprised, therefore, to hear an insistent rapping on the door just as the evening was drawing in. He remained seated, absently turning over a carving of a galloping horse between his hands, as he bid his visitors enter. The door opened to reveal Merry and Pippin, who greeted him and invited him to join them for a smoke. Gimli smiled a little sadly as he turned them down.

'That's a friendly thought, lads, and I thank you, but I'm perfectly settled here, and a Dwarf will often take himself off alone at times like this, so don't you fret about me. I fear I'd make for a rather morose companion, at any rate, you don't need me dragging down your mood.'

Merry and Pippin glanced at each other uncertainly, and then Merry said,

'We do know that Dwarves like to grieve in private, and Legolas said we could ask but not to bother you if you didn't want to be bothered, so we will go away if you do really want us to, but- well, you see…'

Merry trailed off, pausing to formulate his next words, and Pippin jumped into the break in conversation.

'It doesn't feel right to us to leave a companion alone in their grief for too long, especially not when you've hardly seen a soul since this morning.'

Merry continued, having gathered his thoughts a little, 'We do things a bit differently in the Shire, see. Of course, a hobbit who's mourning needs a bit of time on his own to sort it all out in his head, and we respect that, but his friends are sure not to stray too far, and to spend some time with him even if he doesn't really feel like it, not always talking, just being there so he knows he has his people round him and he doesn't have to face it all on his own.'

Pippin picked up smoothly where Merry had left off.

'Not sure if you're aware, but we consider you something of an honorary hobbit, you know,' he informed Gimli in a serious tone but with a twinkle in his eye, and at this the Dwarf couldn't help but smile a little. 'So we thought to let you know we're willing to keep you company no matter how morose you are, just like we would if it were Fatty Bolger or any other of our friends in the Shire.'

Merry nodded solemnly and said reassuringly, 'You don't even have to say anything if you don't want. If you're in the mood for just a 'thinking smoke' rather than a 'talking smoke' we'll happily oblige, won't we Pip?'

'Aye. Absolutely. What do you say, Gimli?'

They both looked at him expectantly after this little double act and Gimli found himself moved and unsure what to say. He really was in no mood for company and were he in Erebor, he probably would have retreated deep into the most private areas of the family caves, which the other Dwarves would have recognised as a sign of his need for solitude, and he would only have emerged once he felt ready to face everything again. If one of his kin had come to offer company and check that he was well, they would have retreated respectfully at his first refusal. But nevertheless, he had shared so much with this Fellowship over the past months that they had come to be a second family to him, all of them, and Merry and Pippin's earnest faces and beseeching eyes were slowly chipping away his resistance to the idea of leaving his little haven. He had done many un-Dwarvish things during the Quest, befriending an Elf being the most important one, but he had changed in smaller ways too. They had all changed each other, learned from each other; if he could learn to respect the forests like an Elf, perhaps he could learn to be vulnerable in his grief amongst others like a hobbit. He realised that Merry and Pippin were still waiting for an answer, so he swallowed hard and said,

'Aye, well, maybe I could use a good 'thinking smoke', after all. Thank you, lads.'

They both beamed.

'Our pleasure!' Merry assured him.

* * *

When they reached the sitting room, they found it complete with a fire merrily crackling in the hearth and Legolas curled up in an armchair in the corner, reading a book of poetry he had borrowed from Faramir. He looked up when they entered, his expression lighting up in pleased surprise when he saw that Gimli had chosen to emerge. Merry and Pippin immediately began to fill their pipes, but Gimli sent a questioning look at the Elf as his hand hovered over his.

'Go ahead. I won't bother you,' Legolas reassured him, returning serenely to his reading.

He looked up again when he felt eyes on him and chuckled to see a Dwarf and two hobbits staring at him as though he had suddenly grown an extra head. Pippin was actually open-mouthed.

'Are you well, Legolas?' Merry asked anxiously.

'Quite well, I assure you, Merry,' he replied, eyes sparkling in his amusement. 'I maintain my right to vociferously complain about your deplorable habit of pipeweed smoking on any and all future occasions, but just this once,' he sniffed in mock disdain, 'I suppose I can tolerate it.'

'Now _that_ sounds more like our Elf,' Pippin remarked as the hobbits dissolved into relieved laughter. Gimli, however, caught Legolas' eye and said with feeling,

'Thanks, lad.'

Legolas simply smiled gently at him, then turned his eyes back to his page as he murmured,

'Don't mention it.'

Permission to fill the room with pipeweed smoke granted by his sensitive-nosed friend, Gimli needed no more persuasion and settled on the settee to fill his pipe. Merry and Pippin sat down on either side of him, and soon all three were puffing contentedly. Gimli had not realised how tense he had been on leaving his comfortable solitude until he felt himself relaxing, lulled by the little clicks and snaps of the burning logs and the occasional whisper of a page turning from Legolas' corner. True to their word, neither Merry nor Pippin attempted to force a conversation, and indeed both seemed lost in their thoughts, perhaps absorbed in memories of the Shire and concerns for how it had fared without the protection of the Rangers. So Gimli felt free to let his own thoughts wander, trying to imagine how Erebor had changed in his absence, to really picture what it would be like to return home. In his mind's eye, he saw himself enter between gates scarred by a cruel battering ram, run to his father who was hobbling towards him on a stick, visit Tóra and hear her proud words about her son's courage and then deal another cruel blow, witnessing her pain as he confirmed her husband's gruesome demise.

 _Erebor stands,_ he reminded himself, almost desperately repeating the phrase in his head as he was tempted yet again to give in to melancholy. He looked to the hobbit companions who were flanking him and Merry gave him an encouraging smile as their eyes met. Gimli's earlier objections to being in company melted away in the face of that tiny gesture. Merry could surely see from his expression that he was brooding on distressing subjects, and yet there was no condemnation of his weakness in the hobbit's gaze, nor any patronising sympathy. There was just that tiny little quirk of the lips that said _you are not alone in this._ It was at that moment that Gimli decided that he was very grateful, and proud too, that he was an honorary hobbit.

The pipes were refilled several times over the course of the evening, and Gimli allowed his mind to wander where it would, safe in the knowledge that should he stray into the realms of bleak depression, he had only to look to his left or his right to draw strength and courage from his companions to fight it off. They remained sitting there in contemplation after the pipes had been put away, and eventually Gimli became aware of Pippin listing to one side a little, evidently fatigued, occasionally slumping and then jerking himself awake again. Watching all this with an indulgent regard, Merry asked,

'Shall we turn in then, Pip?'

'Aye,' Pippin yawned, snuggling further into the settee and not looking particularly ready to move. 'In a few moments.'

More than a few moments went past, yet no one moved, nor did they seem inclined to. Gimli quickly became lost in thought again. He was in the middle of wondering what had been said at Dáin's funeral and wishing fruitlessly that he had been able to pay his respects to his late king, when he was startled out of his musings by a light touch on his right side. Turning his head to investigate, he saw to his amusement that Pippin had lost his battle with exhaustion and had slumped, asleep, on his shoulder. In a movement that felt as natural as breathing, he reached his arm around the hobbit and pulled him in closer to rest against his side, to which Pippin responded with a sleepy little noise of contentment. Gimli and Merry shared a fond grin, before Gimli turned his eyes to the fire again, watching it burn low.

Exhausted himself after the difficult emotions of the past day and night, Gimli found his mind flitting between his current situation and his memories, blurring the boundaries between them until reality became too elusive to grasp. He was watching the flames burn low after an exhausting few days with the warm weight of a smaller body pressed up against his side. He was in the family hall in Erebor, tired but satisfied after a frenzied scramble to finish an emergency order of weaponry from Minas Tirith. He had just shared a pipe with Orin, congratulating him on his first big challenge as an apprentice; his nephew had panicked at first when he realised how much work there was, but Gimli had taught him to master his stress and break the work down into manageable tasks. They had sent off two wagonloads of quality weapons on time, and Orin had flushed with pride when Gimli had praised his work and told him there was a master ironsmith hiding somewhere behind all those russet curls. And now…now Orin, understandably worn out, was collapsed against Gimli and asleep on his shoulder, tiredness having won out over his usual protests that he was getting too old for this sort of thing. Not that he would have admitted this to anyone, but Gimli delighted in these little reminders of Orin as an innocent and trusting dwarfling, and he yearned for this moment to last for ever, just him relaxing in front of the fire and Orin completely safe in his protective embrace…

'That's one tired little Took you have there, Gimli.'

The voice shattered the mental sanctuary Gimli had unconsciously been building with the force of a pick splintering rock. It was all Gimli could do not to flinch for the sake of his sleeping companion as the crushing reality overwhelmed him. Of course. Of course he was not in Erebor, and it was Pippin asleep on his shoulder, not Orin. He was in Minas Tirith. And Orin was dead.

Merry had interpreted Gimli's serene smile whilst holding Pippin as a sign that he was feeling better and would perhaps like some light talk, and he did not see the change in Gimli's expression, as he had turned his head away to confirm that the curly head on his shoulder was chestnut, not russet. So Merry continued, not realising Gimli's distress.

'It's his own fault, though, the silly goose. Complained to Strider yesterday that he felt he was being given preferential treatment and he didn't need to be babied by being ordered to do only the easy tasks. So naturally, Strider had him on all sorts of duties all across the city today to prove to him exactly how much he was respected as a knight of Gondor. And now look at the state of the foolish Took. Gimli? Are you all right?'

Gimli had still not turned to look at Merry, and some of the earlier tension had crept back into the set of his shoulders. When Gimli did not respond, Merry tried to peer round to look at him.

'Gimli, I'm sorry. Was it something I said?'

Finally, Gimli turned his head and Merry was horrified to see that silent tears were coursing down his cheeks and being absorbed into his beard. Pippin shifted a bit in response to the movement but remained insensible to all of it.

'Oh, I should have just stayed quiet! I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to distress you.'

Gimli shook his head mournfully and explained hoarsely, 'Nay, lad. It wasn't you. Only memories.'

No longer trusting himself to say the right thing, Merry simple nodded and rested his hand on Gimli's upper arm in a gesture of mute support. He wasn't expecting Gimli to want to say more, so he was a little surprised and very touched when Gimli went on to confess,

'Orin went to sleep on me exactly like this, once. And for a moment…'

'You thought it was him,' Merry supplied the words Gimli was too ashamed to say out loud, his eyes widening in horror and sorrow as Gimli gave an embarrassed nod. 'Oh, Gimli, I am _so_ sorry. I can wake him up and chivvy him to bed if you like.'

'Nay, do not,' Gimli answered immediately, his arm tightening protectively a little around Pippin's shoulders. 'He looks so peaceful, it'd be a shame to wake him.'

Merry looked at them dubiously. 'Are you certain? It'd be a moment's work to get him upstairs and he'd drop right back off to sleep where he left off. And if it's hurting you…'

'It's not,' Gimli answered, surprised at the conviction in his own voice. 'I grieve because Orin will never have the chance to fall asleep on me like that again after a long week at the forge, and because he was robbed of the chance to be everything that he was meant to be.'

Gimli swatted away the tears with the heel of his free hand and took a deep breath before continuing.

'That Pippin leans on me like this, it reminds me that though the war took away so many innocent young lives, it did not destroy innocent youth entirely. This marvel of a lad here, even after all he's done, all he's been through, he's still a tweenager who trusts me enough to doze off on my shoulder. And that- well, that gives me hope, in a way.'

A little surprised at himself for admitting to that, Gimli cleared his throat. 'So he's fine right where he is, Merry, but thank you for checking.'

'Well then,' Merry smiled softly, 'it seems like he's exactly where he needs to be. I won't disturb him. And thank you for telling me that. Pip brings me hope, too.'

In opening his heart with those last five words, just as Gimli had opened his, Merry managed to instantly quiet the alarm bells ringing in Gimli's mind, which had been warning him that he had revealed too much. Feeling something like calm envelop him again, Gimli found himself able to say with a lighter heart, his tears finally abating,

'I think he brings a lot of people hope. Amazing achievement for such a rascal, really.'

'I don't know how he does it,' Merry replied in mock exasperation, belied by the fond grin he bestowed on his slumbering cousin.

'The mystery of Peregrin Took, eh,' Gimli agreed amicably, relaxing further into the cushions with a yawn. Merry simply smiled and the two friends drifted into a comfortable silence. Merry watched carefully, and sure enough, before long Gimli's eyelids had flickered closed and his breathing had evened out. Once he was sure that his two companions were settled, Merry began to think of heading upstairs to take his own rest, but the scene before him was one of such contentment that he was reluctant to leave. Before he knew it, his own eyelids were drooping, and he was so comfortable in his nest of cushions…

Some time later, Legolas, whose presence all three had forgotten, rose from his chair and padded towards the couch on silent feet. He crouched at the hearth and banked the fire, then found a blanket and spread it over the sleeping Dwarf and his hobbit bookends. They would all have stiff necks in the morning, but they would have a deeper friendship and lighter hearts, so Legolas dismissed the idea of rousing them to get them into bed. Careful not to wake them, he gave each of his companions a light kiss on the forehead and whispered an Elvish blessing for peace of heart and mind.

Then he slipped noiselessly out of the room to take his own reverie on the balcony beneath the stars, and oblivious to all of it, three hobbits (one of them honorary) slept on.


	6. Epilogue: Beautiful indeed

_Happy New Year!_

 _The promised epilogue, at last! This took a while to come together, and I do hope it was worth the wait. It's a nice juicy long one, so that's something, I suppose! Thanks to Shirebound, Bookworm-soul and Silkleaf for your lovely reviews on the last chapter, it's been wonderful to share this with you and with everyone reading_ _. Thanks also to my beta Ink Stained Quill for your unwavering support and dedication to this fic._

 _This should be obvious in the fic, but all of this is set before Aragorn finds the new sapling of the White Tree on Mount Mindolluin._

 _Without further ado..._

 **Epilogue**

'The connections we make now might set an important precedent for Gondor's future trading patterns,' Aragorn mused, his forehead resting on one palm as he scanned the parchment detailing all of the goods that war-ravaged Minas Tirith would need to import.

'I believe so, sire,' Faramir agreed gravely, 'It would certainly be well to strengthen Gondor's internal trade links. Lossarnach managed to retain much of its livestock, so they will be useful for wool, and you may be able to win over Lord Mirdal on the Council if you initiated a trading agreement between the Lossarnach merchants and the Weaver's Guild.'

'Lord Mirdal?' Aragorn looked sharply across at Faramir, brow furrowed in thought as his fierce intellect sifted frenziedly through masses of new information on Gondorian politics he had had to absorb, the concentrated inquiry in his eyes deftly masking his bewilderment. A man less observant than Faramir might have missed his confusion entirely. The Steward, however, had privately dubbed this the 'Faramir-I'm-confused-please-explain' expression; though he had far too much respect for his new Sovereign to dream of informing him of this.

'His brother is the president of that Guild, Mirdal is still wavering about supporting you fully; get him on your side and you get Lords Adronil and Farandar as well. It would be a wise political move in my opinion, Sire.'

Aragorn took a moment to process this, and then his brow creased again, in distaste this time, 'That may be, but it sounds too much like bribery to me.'

A loud groan from the other side of the room had both King and Steward turning their heads.

'Aragorn, you need to learn that there is a time and place to be noble. You will find that dealing politically with the nobility themselves is never it.'

Legolas had made this pronouncement from the settee, where he was rapidly sorting through piles of correspondence and resting his feet on another stack of probably very important political documents, itself teetering on the edge of the coffee table. Faramir was doing his best not to think about this, since he was still unsure how his new liege lord would react to his brother-in-arms being thoroughly lectured on proper care of paperwork by his Steward and was not yet willing to make an experiment of it.

Despite his decided nonchalance when it came to paperwork, Faramir had to admit that Legolas was an astute political advisor, and he was also fast becoming a close friend. Although not technically entitled to a seat on the King's Council, the Elf would often drop in and keep company with the King and Steward as they worked together in their study. His time assisting his father in the running of a kingdom besieged and battered by Sauron's forces gave him specialised insight into Gondor's problems, and the fledgling King was grateful for his old friend's generous and perceptive guidance. Aragorn had of course been trained in the proper running of a large kingdom in Rivendell, but Legolas was a useful source of practical information to combine with Aragorn's often overly idealistic theory.

'Surely this doesn't go on in the Elven realms though, Legolas? Erestor always impressed upon me the value of leaders who are just and fair, who earn respect rather than buy it…'

Legolas gave a rather inelegant snort. 'Of course he did, and if everybody acted by the book that would always work, but since they don't, I assure you it is perfectly possible to be a just, fair and good leader who also knows how to get the right people on his side. I don't know where that leaves my Elvenking if it isn't.'

Aragorn paled. 'I didn't just accidentally insult King Thranduil, did I? Valar have mercy'

'No offence taken,' Legolas smiled back lightly. 'I know what you meant. And as to your question about Elven politics, you try running a realm made up of half inherently suspicious native forest-folk and half war refugees from the noble houses of Doriath without recourse to the occasional bit of political manoeuvring…'

Aragorn paled further. 'I've got quite enough on my hands with one Reunited Kingdom, thank you very much. I see your point. And since such an agreement should be beneficial to the people anyway… Faramir, could you begin drafting letters to both the Weavers Guild and the Mayor of Lossarnach and see what we can do about creating favourable trade conditions?'

Faramir shot Legolas an appreciative glance, forgiving him his unorthodox attitude to paperwork just this once. 'Of course, sire. That is an excellent idea.'

Aragorn gave Faramir a wry look. 'You really don't need to pass off all your good ideas as mine, you know. I do notice when you do that.'

'And his ego really doesn't need to be any more inflated than it already is, believe me,' Legolas chipped in, with a wink at Faramir, who blushed, still rather uncomfortable with being implicated in openly teasing his monarch.

Aragorn simply shot the Elf a long-suffering glance, then rubbed his temples as he scanned the list of goods again. 'Still doesn't solve our biggest problem, though, which is going to be dried foodstuffs for the winter. Our stores were almost completely depleted during the siege, and I doubt the provinces will have fared any better.'

'Speaking of the Elven realms,' Legolas suggested. 'I will ask the Elvenking if Eryn Lasgalen could potentially provide some help, although our own stores are depleted, and I suspect we will have to give priority to Esgaroth and Dale, so I cannot promise anything. Between Imladris and Lothlorien, you should be fine, though.'

'I've already heard from Celeborn,' Aragorn sighed, 'he said that he would be willing to do what he can this year, which is a comfort, and as much as possible in the future, but he warned us not to become too reliant on trade with the Elven realms in the years to come.'

'Why ever not?' Legolas frowned. 'Surely the old prejudices will not survive if what you hope comes to pass.'

Faramir did not miss the expression of fervent longing that flitted across Aragorn's face at these words, nor Legolas' indulgent smile in response, but before he had a chance to decipher these happenings Aragorn had changed the subject.

'It's not that,' the King said, massaging his temples with his fingertips. 'It's just that with the new East Lothlorien to populate, and so few of his people choosing to remain, Celeborn wanted to make me aware that he'll be working with a disparate and decreasing population so trade with other realms will become increasingly difficult.'

'Remain?' Legolas queried, his heart hammering in his chest at this news, and he slid his feet neatly down from his improvised footrest until he was perched on the edge of the settee, his frame taut with tension. 'What do you mean, remain?'

He, of course, knew very well what was meant by 'remain.' He felt ridiculous asking it, the only Elf in the room appearing ignorant of their current situation, but his heart protested vehemently against the idea that the beautiful, timeless Lothlorien would begin to fade. He knew this, had known it for a long time, but it was a crushing realisation that it was beginning, his people really were disappearing, it was happening _now._ And of course, Aragorn's words had reminded him of his own struggle to remain; he had felt the tugging of the sea calling his heart especially strongly this morning, but he had fought it, told himself sternly that Aragorn needed him, and he had thought that for a few hours at least he had won. Now, though, invisible gulls were crying their mocking calls in his ears, ridiculing him for having ever believed he could make himself forget them.

Aragorn seemed to sense the distress behind the unusual question, and his voice was gently sorrowful as he responded.

'Many of the Lothlorien elves are choosing to sail. Especially those involved in the attack on Dol Guldur, after all horrors that they saw there-'

'But _I_ have seen horrors this past year and I'm going to stay,' Legolas burst out, finally honestly declaring what they both knew: this conversation, by now, was not really about Lothlorien.

'I know, and I am so grateful for your sacrifices,' Aragorn replied, his voice low and soothing as if calming a skittish horse. 'But though it would pain me to part from you, I would not have you inflict more suffering upon yourself for my sake. If you find you must go, like so many of those Lothlorien elves, you would go with my blessing. You know that, don't you?'

Legolas was breathing fast and shallowly by now. Why could Aragorn not understand that this was not what he needed? He didn't need assurances that he _could_ sail: he knew that, and it was a terrifying truth rather than a comforting one. He needed to be needed, to be anchored to this place that he would continue to call home in defiance of the gulls for as long as his friends were there to make it so. And suddenly the office felt claustrophobic, as if the walls were closing in on him and amplifying the painful screaming of the gulls that only he could hear. He nodded numbly, no longer really aware of what he was agreeing to other than that he needed to get outside and fast.

'My lords, please, I beg your pardon, would you excuse me?' he managed to choke out, leaving King and Steward exchanging a glance of confused concern as he fair bolted to the door, ignoring Aragorn's calls for him to stay a moment.

Reverting as he often did at times of panic to his Silvan instincts, Legolas' one clear thought in the tempest that surrounded him was the need to find something green and growing and let its song soothe his distraught feelings. He flew through the corridor, heedless of the startled guards left in his wake, and burst out into the main courtyard.

What he found, of course, was a tree. But not a green and growing one. He stopped short before the ancient White Tree of Gondor, gnarled and twisted and really more grey than white now, leafless despite the mild May weather. He collected himself enough to nod to the guards, who had been instructed to allow any of the Nine Walkers access to the tree if they wanted it, and hesitantly approached, longing to reach out and feel if any life resided still in the broken shell, yet afraid of the despair that might take him if there was not.

Reverently, he knelt, reaching out to curl both his hands around the curve of the trunk, focusing his senses on the being before him. He strained to hear any movement of bubbling sap hidden deep within the dead outer shell, to see any hesitant, incipient leaf buds emerging, to feel if roots still wriggled on their quest for water beneath the soil. He listened with his soul for life in the White Tree.

And there was nothing.

* * *

It was thus that Gimli found him, hands clasped around the tree trunk and head bowed, as the Dwarf made his way to stop by Aragorn's study after his weekly meeting with Minas Tirith's stonemasons. To see Legolas in such a position was not unusual, and this provided Gimli with ample opportunities for teasing from his elven friend; on any other day, Gimli might have clapped him on the shoulder and asked cheerily 'what's that old piece of deadwood saying to you then?' However, Gimli was reading his new friend better with every passing day, learning to interpret the body language and expressions of the Elf he once thought so aloof and emotionless. He had no idea how he knew, but as he changed course to join his friend beside the White Tree, something told him that his friend's head was bowed not in respect, but in despair, and his hands were not draped around the tree solely to initiate contact, but clutching it for support.

So, he knelt at an angle from his friend around the tree, and reached out his hands to cover Legolas', saying quietly, 'Is everything well, lad?'

Legolas looked up at him, and Gimli saw to his horror that he had been proven right: Legolas' expression was one of deep anguish.

'What have we left behind us, Gimli?' he asked in a quiet, sorrowful tone. 'Three Ages of existence in Ennor, and all the Secondborn have to thank us for is war damage, prejudice and a withered White Tree.'

' _Laddie_ ,' Gimli replied, shaken by this unaccustomed mournfulness, and squeezed the pale hands resting beneath his on the tree trunk. 'What's brought this on?'

'The Elves are sailing,' Legolas explained. 'So many from Lothlorien that Celeborn predicts that in future years his realm will not produce enough even to trade with Minas Tirith. And this not solely because of the fading of the Three, but also because of the horrors they have seen in the battle with Dol Guldur. What then of my people, who have faced its horror for centuries and confronted it in pitched battle in the past year? Those with Sindarin blood might sail, the Silvans retreat into the secret places of the wood. My heart will rest in the forest no more indeed, for the forest itself will not rest as its protectors disappear.'

'Not all of them, surely,' Gimli countered. 'There must be others like you who intend to stay: Celeborn seems certain of having a realm for the coming years, at least.'

'Few enough, and the time will come for us, too, to leave these shores or fade as if we never were. The Age of Men has begun, _mellon nín._ '

Gimli froze for a moment in indecision. Part of him wanted to keep arguing, to impress upon Legolas that the Elves were not all sailing yet, that there was still time to build and grow in Middle Earth, and to comfort him with these words. But Legolas' words had struck him to the core, summoning up a pain he had buried deep within himself until this moment. So guided by some wisdom whose source he knew not, Gimli sensed that the best thing he could offer Legolas was not empty consolation. It was the reassurance that, painful as it was, he _understood._

'Indeed it has, lad,' Gimli agreed solemnly. 'I don't know if this is a particularly comforting thing to hear, but the Dwarves too are coming to the end of our time. There were few enough of us in Erebor as it was, and after the battering we took in its defence, well-'

Gimli shared a long look with Legolas, in which both saw their own grief and growing resignation mirrored in the other's eyes. And perhaps it was this which gave Gimli the courage to finish his sentence.

'I don't think we're going to be coming back from this.'

'Nay,' Legolas sighed. 'Neither will the elves.' A beat, as their acceptance of the waning of their peoples resounded in the air like the clanging of a gong. 'Do you ever wonder, Gimli, centuries hence, what Men will say of your people?'

'Never really given it much thought before,' Gimli replied, drawing back his hands and sitting back on his heels. He dug out his pipe and began to chew on it thoughtfully. 'Although I suppose it is fairly obvious. We Dwarves guard our history more jealously than our gold, so if we are remembered at all, they will only think us short, hairy people obsessed with mining. That's all we've ever let them see, anyhow, so we cannot expect them to remember any more.'

'But what will become of your heritage, then? Your stories, your songs, your rituals, tales of your courage and honour and strength. Will all of that be forgotten?'

'I suppose,' Gimli mused, 'our heritage will be as the Glittering Caves of Aglarond. An abundance of untold worth and beauty, lying unremarked in the darkness.'

'But you intend to reveal the beauty of Aglarond to the world, do you not?'

'Aye. That I do. But there are those Dwarves who would say that our history is too precious even for such a careful unveiling, and that it is better to let it remain shrouded in darkness than to risk it becoming tainted from exposure.'

'And what do you say, Gimli son of Glóin?'

'A year ago, I might have agreed with them,' Gimli admitted. 'But I have changed. Seeing the Glittering Caves, starved of the care and the notice that could make them a wonder of this Middle Earth, taught me the sadness of a beautiful thing abandoned when it should be admired. After all, it is the mark of a true Dwarf to rejoice in unearthing the secrets of the dark underground and bringing them to light. And our history is far more intricate and beautiful than the most complex formations of mithril, and yet we bury it rather than releasing its beauty.'

'So you would consider sharing it, perhaps, that it might be remembered?'

'Perhaps, with the same precision and care I intend to give to Aglarond. It must be unfolded gently, a story or a song at a time, so that the listener might gradually come to appreciate all that it represents to the Dwarvish people.'

'And where do you intend to find such a listener in the world of Men? Aragorn may not have time with all his duties, but perhaps you would find in Faramir a willing and enthusiastic student, although he too carries heavy burdens, of course…'

Gimli shook his head, smiling a little. 'I was not speaking of the Secondborn, Legolas.'

'Oh? But surely that would be the point, to pass on the history of the Dwarves that your valour and wisdom may be remembered in this Middle Earth, would it not?'

'Perhaps in part, but it is not important to me where it is remembered. I may trust a Man to hear and understand our secrets, but to transmit them? Write them down? The thought makes me uncomfortable.'

'But if you only entrust them to one person, swearing them to secrecy, then after one lifetime all that history is forgotten again and the situation is unchanged.'

'Depends how long that lifetime is, then, doesn't it? I was not speaking of the Secondborn, remember?'

Finally, Legolas worked it out.

'You- you would honour me thus? Entrust this to me? But your ancestors…'

'Will be turning in their graves, absolutely,' Gimli agreed cheerfully. 'They'll be glad of a little exercise, I'm sure. Dwarves in general don't give them enough.' He grew serious again. 'And the thing about unearthing beauty, is that it is all for nothing unless you find a pair of eyes that can really see it. And I have already entrusted my life to yours. They can count spears on the plains of Rohan, aim a perfect shot at a Nazgúl's steed in the dark and I believe they will see the worth in the tales long held in the secret places of my heart.'

'Then I would indeed be honoured to hear whatever you see fit to tell me, and I will let your crafting of the stories reveal their inner beauty like the finest polished gems. But still, do you not mind that the Men will forget that it was your sacrifices that protected them from Sauron, that they will write histories in which you are portrayed without depth, simply because you did not show them you are more than miners?'

'No,' Gimli replied calmly. 'I will entrust the jewels I care for the most into safe hands. That way I will know that their beauty has not gone unappreciated, and yet it is not tarnished by overexposure. I can be content with that.'

'Oh,' Legolas was stunned for a moment before he recovered his composure. 'If you are content, then so am I. And you may be certain then that your history and your customs will survive as long as I do. I will not forget.'

Gimli smiled at him for a moment before saying, 'I know you won't, lad. And that's why I trust you with them. You seem concerned with what Men will say of Dwarves in later Ages- what do you think they will say of elves?'

Legolas grimaced. 'It has already begun. You heard them in Rohan. Already they do not understand us, and think us capricious sprites at best, malicious sorcerers at worst. Our history will disappear from this land as we do.'

'And that bothers you,' Gimli observed. 'Why is that? Your people will hold onto all your traditions and stories as you go West, surely.'

'Aye. But those who died in defence of these lands will be forgotten in the places they gave everything to redeem, and that thought distresses me. Aratur, Brondir and Thelion gave their lives to return the Greenwood to itself, and those who later walk under its boughs will not think on that. They will believe the elves of Eryn Lasgalen but a fairy tale, a fancy dreamed up by over-imaginative children of the Lakemen who insist they saw a pixie in the woods. It is a strange thing, is it not, to think of the valiant dead of the Greenwood being denied their very existence by those whose lands they died to save?'

Gimli had not really considered this before, and he gradually began to understand Legolas' upset. He imagined the slow slide from history into legend into fairy story, envisioned the Lakemen hiking up Erebor with their children hundreds of years hence, perhaps insisting that the carefully sculpted rock formations were simply natural phenomena, and that tales of the Dwarves who chiselled them were merely fancy. He thought of Orin, of all that he was, of his enthusiasm and determination, of the love for his mountain home that had led him to die in its defence, and he thought of all those very real sacrifices being forgotten, dismissed as a nonsense story for children. Rage and sorrow roared up in him, and it took him a few moments to quiet them and search for any consolation that could be found here.

'Strange indeed,' he managed at last, 'but I take comfort in the fact that the land itself will remember, even if its inhabitants forget. The stones will know who shaped them, and I daresay the trees will remember who tended them.'

'That is a comfort,' Legolas agreed, 'but tell me, Gimli, will the stones and the trees still sing of us if there are none left able to listen?'

Gimli shook his head slowly, and in bitter resignation, used Legolas' own phrasing back to him, echoing words spoken in this very city three months, an Age and a lifetime ago.

'To that the Dwarves know not the answer.'

* * *

'Sire?'

Aragorn wrenched his attention back from replaying the conversation that had led to his friend's sudden exit from his study, analysing every word he had said to try to work out what he had done to cause Legolas such distress. He had followed him to the door but Legolas was at his elven fastest, and would not heed Aragorn's calls, so the King had reluctantly conceded that the elf needed some time alone. But since then, he had been itching to get up and go after him, wondering after every few minutes if he had left it long enough. He gave his Steward a smile he didn't feel.

'My apologies, Faramir, my attention wandered.'

 _To your elven friend's upset. Yes, I am aware of that, my ridiculously compassionate King. Your attention has been with him since he left your study, naturally,_ his Steward thought wryly.

'Where were we?' Aragorn asked, giving a rather convincing air of studied nonchalance, which was nevertheless utterly transparent to Faramir. Out loud, the Steward answered,

'The resource sharing proposals with Rohan to present to the Council next week. Sire, may I make a suggestion?'

'You needn't ask permission every time, Faramir, speak freely.'

'Thank you, Sire. I was thinking that perhaps we might do more productive work on this matter once I have gathered more evidence. Perhaps we might postpone our discussion on this until tomorrow?'

Aragorn ran a distracted hand through his hair. 'Perhaps that might be best. And now?'

Faramir finally took the plunge and abandoned his formal charade, for the most part.

'Go to him, Sire. Go and find him. I do not believe your mind will rest until you know he is well. I beg your pardon if I have spoken out of turn, Sire.'

Aragorn blinked, stunned for a moment, before allowing a delighted grin to spread across his face as he rose and strode to the door.

'No pardon needed, Faramir, you have my every permission to direct me to follow my heart when I am feigning deafness to it. You really are a miracle of the Valar, you know that?'

And leaving Faramir to utter a confused 'Sire?' at his King's retreating back, Aragorn headed off to search for his elven friend. Once in the corridor, he took a deep breath and tried to imagine where Legolas would go if he were distressed. The answer, of course, was blindingly obvious as it hit him. He headed off on the quickest route outside at a run.

Once he reached the archway leading out into the main courtyard, he sighed in relief to see Gimli beside Legolas where they both knelt at the White Tree and began to wonder if his presence would be helpful or if he should just leave the situation in Gimli's capable hands. Just as Gimli had read Legolas' posture earlier though, Aragorn had grown knowledgeable about his companions' ways, and as he approached on silent feet, he noted with concern that _both_ his friends seemed to be downcast, so he began to listen to their conversation as he came within range of hearing. That they were so lost in contemplation that they did not notice Aragorn's approach set another warning bell ringing in his mind.

'Funny, isn't it,' Gimli was saying, 'That for most of our existence our races have been at each other's throats, and yet we recede into twilight together. I don't know what to call it. Ironic, perhaps? Poetic justice?'

'A tragic irony,' Legolas asserted firmly, 'A tragic irony that we have wasted so much time on Age-old grudges and quarrels of superiority, only to learn too late that together we could have done so much more.'

'What's this I'm hearing about 'too late'?' Aragorn declared, clapping a hand on the shoulder of each of his friends, thus performing the remarkable feat of startling both an Elf and a Dwarf at the same time.

'The Age of Men is upon us, Aragorn,' Gimli stated seriously once he had recovered. 'You know that better than any. And Legolas and I were discussing the changes that are coming as our peoples disappear from this Middle Earth.'

'I see,' Aragorn commented, his tiredness suddenly becoming all the more visible in his expression. 'I do hope that the thought of entrusting these lands to Men is not as terrible as your faces make it appear. And Legolas, I apologise for my insensitivity earlier, I did not think and perhaps I misunderstood what you needed. Forgive me.'

'Nothing to forgive,' Legolas affirmed him, though his expression was still troubled. 'I am sorry.'

'What have you to be sorry for?' Aragorn asked, confused.

There were so many ways that Legolas could have answered that question.

 _Sorry that you have inherited a war-ravaged kingdom which will need all your hard work just to pull through the first winter._

 _Sorry that so many of the Elves are abandoning you to struggle through the aftermath of this victory and the grievous losses that come with it._

 _Sorry that I have been plagued with my own sorrows and fears at a time when I hoped to be assisting with all the new demands being heaped upon you._

 _Sorry that my own heart now listens to the incessant call of the Sea, even when I would have it listen to you instead._

 _Sorry that this victory is turning out to be more complicated than any of us could have imagined._

Legolas wasn't even sure himself what he was sorry for, whether he wanted to say all of it or none of it, so what he said in the end was rather different.

'The White Tree is dead.'

Aragorn glanced at him keenly, and Legolas felt for a moment that Aragorn had heard in those five words everything he didn't say.

'But the spirit of Men is not,' Aragorn affirmed quietly, and for a moment the early morning sun splintered through the White Tree's spindly branches and seemed to focus like a star upon his brow. He kneeled then and placed his hands atop his companions' where they were resting together on one of the tree roots.

'You prove that admirably every day,' Legolas acknowledged with a fragile smile.

'Aye. That you do,' Gimli agreed, but continued 'and after inhabiting this Middle Earth for Ages, our peoples have left a true challenge for that indomitable spirit, have we not?'

'A shattered shell of a White Tree to match a world shattered by the evil we courted, allowed to thrive on our prejudices and divisions, and failed to combat until it was almost too late,' Legolas elaborated on Gimli's statement, eyes falling to the ground as he found himself unable to look at Aragorn whilst speaking of the weight of the destruction he would need to bring his kingdom back from.

Aragorn looked between his friends, burdened by both their people's histories and their futures, and nodded as he reached a conclusion. He rose suddenly, encouraging his companions to do the same.

'I do believe,' he declared, 'that you are both suffering from an excess of symbolism. Come with me and we shall rectify that.'

He strode off in the direction of the City, discreetly tailed by his guards, and after exchanging a mystified glance, his friends followed him.

* * *

The walk was short, and since Aragorn seemed disinclined to explain himself and the others were lost in their thoughts, silent. They stopped when they reached what seemed like a fairly average Minas Tirith street in these times. Three of the shops had re-opened and were displaying their wares on trestles outside, and a few passers-by were idly inspecting them as they passed. The return of the street's inhabitants was signalled by smoke rising from several chimneys and the wet washing drying on lines strung out between the houses. There was some evidence of the damage caused by the war, but in a stroke of ingenuity a group of mud-smeared children had repositioned some of the rubble from a ruined house to make a court for their ball game. Oblivious to all else, including the strange trio who had just paused in the lee of an awning at a shopfront, the children threw themselves wholeheartedly into their game, letting the wind snatch away their shouts of triumph and quarrels over points. Aragorn saw his companions' curious glances, but instead of explaining why they were here, he announced something rather different, and instantly Gimli and Legolas set aside their own concerns on hearing it.

'I've been having doubts about whether I really am capable of ruling Gondor well.'

'Not this again, lad!' Gimli scolded affectionately, while Legolas sighed in exasperation before saying, 'Aragorn. We've been through this. You are intelligent man: surely you can see how much the people respect you, how beneficial all the decisions you've made are, how perfectly suited you are in personality to this role.'

'My ancestors, too, were intelligent, but they were led astray by dreams of power. That the Ring is destroyed does not render me immune to this weakness- I fear that I will fail my people by repeating my ancestors' mistakes. It is, after all, partly the fault of my bloodline that Minas Tirith suffered such devastating losses in the first place.'

'What would Mithrandir say to hear you speaking thus, Aragorn?' Legolas asked.

'I don't know. You tell me,' Aragorn countered with a gleam in his eye, confirming Legolas' growing suspicion that this crisis of confidence was more than it seemed. It was Gimli, however, who answered, speaking slowly as he too, realised what Aragorn was driving at,

'He would say that you are not your ancestors, and that all you have are the choices that are afforded to you. Your quality shows in those choices alone, and yours so far have been mighty fine, I might add. Therefore it is both nonsensical and futile to attempt to bear the guilt of your forebears on your own shoulders- oh.'

'Oh indeed,' Aragorn responded with fond amusement. 'Unless there's something big you're not telling me, I highly doubt that you two are solely responsible for all of the conflicts that have plagued Middle Earth in the past three Ages, so I'd thank you for not berating yourselves as if you are.'

'That was underhanded, Aragorn,' Legolas scowled, not quite managing to hide his relief and gratitude as Aragorn's words melted away some of his irrational guilt.

'Perhaps,' Aragorn agreed amiably, 'Simply payment in kind for all the time you've spent convincing me I'm not Isildur, _mellon nín._ And it was effective, was it not?'

'Very much so, lad,' Gimli agreed, and Legolas responded with an 'aye,' and a mock-exasperated shake of the head.

'For what it's worth,' Aragorn continued softly, after smiling in acknowledgement of this, 'I don't much care for the idea of one symbol to represent everything the Elves and Dwarves have given to Middle Earth. We speak of generations and generations of complex people with complicated motivations, and their mark on these lands is far too profound to be summarised so neatly. But if I had to choose one image to represent what you two, as individuals, have given to Gondor, it wouldn't be the dead White Tree. It would be this.'

With this, he made a gesture encompassing everything that surrounded them. 'A city returning to itself. Lives being rebuilt and carrying on despite Sauron's best efforts to stop that happening. And this, this resurrection, as it were, is thanks to you. You stood firm in the face of terrible danger, you marched with me to the gates of Mordor itself, you fought in defence of this city of Men unknown to you. And I do not forget your kinfolk in the North who fought Sauron there, either; without them, and without you, Minas Tirith would not be standing. Of course there is destruction here, but life has prevailed, because of all those who fought to see it do so. If you must have a symbol, I prefer this one.'

'Aye, well,' Gimli mused, his quiet voice and even tone not quite hiding how much he was moved by this. 'I think I do too.'

'You have grown into a fine orator, Estel,' Legolas murmured, pride and perhaps something else gleaming in his eyes.

'And I mean every word,' Aragorn reassured him. 'And I would know, if you care to share it, Legolas, precisely what it was about our discussion earlier that sent your thoughts down this path. I understand that speaking of the elven realms diminishing might have been painful, but I thought you were already aware of that.'

'Of course I was,' Legolas snapped, and then steadied himself. 'It is simply…different, knowing that it will happen, knowing it in theory, to encountering its effects first-hand, finding myself longing to stand firm and anchored here, even as the tide of my people's exodus threatens to pull me away. I had not felt it so deeply before.'

'I think I understand,' Aragorn nodded, 'And you know I respect your choices, whichever way you decide. But sometimes, I am unsure what you require of me when it is weighing on you.'

'Aye, you are most anxious to ensure I know that I am free to sail without your resentment. But there's something I'd like you to know too: I choose to stay, and nothing you can say will sway me. And in those times when I feel myself being pulled away, I need for you to be an anchor and remind me that I still have a place here. That despite the changing of the world, I will be welcome and wanted.'

'That's something I can do, most certainly. And there will be always be a welcome for you here, Legolas, I thought you knew that. I did not want you to feel that I was pressuring you to stay, but do not assume from that that I want you gone. That could not be further from the truth.'

'Good to know,' Legolas smiled in obvious relief, and they drew together and touched foreheads in a warrior's embrace.

When they pulled apart, Aragorn continued, 'I'm glad we clarified that. But how did you get from that feeling to assuming the guilt for all the problems in the world that Men are inheriting? Was it the dead White Tree?'

Gimli stepped in to explain then. 'Aye. We both realised more fully than ever before that the times of our respective peoples are ending, and we did that in the presence of a symbol of the violence and destruction that Middle Earth has endured. And as we thought on the ending of our times, we felt the weight of our history with all its mistakes which our peoples now have little time to put right, and the weight of a future in which those who gave their all to stand against evil at the end may not be remembered.'

Aragorn whistled low under his breath. 'No wonder you looked so maudlin! I hope at least that you feel the past to be less burdensome now you have remembered you cannot be entirely responsible for it.'

'Aye. But it is still jarring to me that those I have lost may be dismissed as non-existent by those who live in our woods in the centuries to come,' said Legolas.

'That is a painful thought indeed. But I wonder- I do not like thinking on this- but Eru forbid, if it were you who had fallen in defence of your home, would you want its future inhabitants to maintain a solemnly respectful remembrance of your sacrifice?'

A pause, while they both considered that, until Legolas said, 'I think not, actually. I would have died so that our forest could be free: I would want them to live without need to think of danger and death.'

'So would I, I think,' Aragorn agreed. 'I am reminded of something Halbarad said to me before we took the Paths of the Dead. I do not know those you have lost, so perhaps I presume too far in assuming they would share his sentiments. If they would have wanted their sacrifice to be remembered over the ages then sadly, there is little any of us can do, as none can dictate the future. But Hal, he said to me, 'when you come into your kingdom'- and that was Hal through and through, he had that unshakeable faith, always saying _when_ and not _if-_ 'when you come into your kingdom, you are like to inherit a city surrounded by battlefields. If I were you, I wouldn't let the approach to my city be ever mournful. Grieving will have to happen, but you'll have the graves for that. Turn what remains of the battlefields into meadows, my lad, and bring life back into that place of death. And as for me-''

Aragorn choked on the words and had to stop for a second to collect himself, barely noticing the firm, anchoring dwarvish hand curling around his arm or the whispering comfort of elvish fingers circling lightly on his back. He took a few steadying breaths and continued in an almost-whisper.

''As for me,' Hal said, 'if I should fall, then I don't want people to stop and sorrow at the spot where it happens. I wouldn't want them to mark it at all. I'd want them to race horses in sport over it, to bring their children to fly their kites there, to dance there in the springtime. And wherever I am then, I'll be laughing in joy, laughing at Sauron and saying _we won._ ''

Aragorn gave a grateful smile to his two companions, finally seeming to register that his left hand was being gently cradled in both of Gimli's and that Legolas had drawn him in to rest against his side.

'I intend to ensure that Halbarad gets his wish,' Aragorn declared, the slight waver in his voice only adding to the conviction of the sentiment.

'And so do we, now we know,' Legolas replied while Gimli nodded vigorously in agreement. 'When we replant the Pelennor next spring, I shall think of him, and sing my songs of renewal in his honour.'

'He'd like that,' Aragorn murmured. 'Songs of renewal, rather than laments. It would be fitting.'

Silence descended for a few moments, as all three warriors thought of those they had lost, and the complexities of memory and mourning. Gimli spoke at last.

'Halbarad had the right of it, I think. We've all lost people, we all grieve, and that's right and as it should be. But we won, and it's also right that we rejoice in the lifting of the darkness that plagued us. I think those we lost would be the first to tell us to celebrate what they died to give to us. We owe our noble lost companions our respect and our grief for their deaths. But perhaps we owe them our joy, too.'

'Well said, _elvellon,_ ' Legolas smiled. 'And it is for future ages to choose what they remember, and if we become simply a fable to them, then so be it. It is for us to honour those we lost by living in this present moment that they died to secure for us.'

The three of them may have continued in that vein for quite a while, perhaps even talking themselves into a greater melancholy with their eloquent statements of the joy they owed their lost companions. However, fate, or perhaps the Valar, intervened in the form of a very muddy inflated pig's bladder, the makeshift ball from the children's game on the other side of the street. The three companions had become accustomed to the noises emanating from the ruined house, and were largely blocking them out, hence they didn't register the shouted warning as one of the older boys missed his aim and ended up pelting the ball straight into the back of Gimli's head.

Gimli flinched, then reached around to investigate the offending object, but Legolas got there first, snatched it up and began to toss it absentmindedly from palm to palm. Three children came haring down from their impromptu court and skidded to a halt as they realised that their unintentional victims were none other than those great personages they had only seen from a distance during Aragorn's triumphal entry to the city. For a moment the two trios regarded each other.

The two younger children were open-mouthed and staring with unabashed curiosity, but the boy who had thrown the ball reacted first, stumbling into a clumsy bow and stuttering out apologies. The girl to his left interrupted him.

'Are you going to chop us heads off for treapson?' she asked, eyes impossibly wide, seemingly more in a sort of morbid fascination than in fear, though.

Aragorn cast an amused glance at his companions and stroked his beard in mock thoughtfulness.

'Hmmmm. I am yet to pass judgement. What say you, my trusted advisors? Should we throw these little miscreants in the dungeons for ever and ever?'

'I say nay, my lord,' Legolas asserted, 'In fact, I think you should reward them for providing an invaluable service.'

'Indeed, you speak truly, our dear Dwarf is out of practice at having things thrown at him, since you have neglected to do so since the early days of our Quest. These kind souls have remedied that,' Aragorn quipped back, enjoying himself more with every word. Gimli started sputtering incoherently, more to entertain the children than out of any real upset. The youngest child giggled at him.

'A reward in the shape of the return of their plaything, then, perhaps?' Aragorn suggested, and Legolas casually strolled over to the children. The older boy sighed in relief, reassured that these strange noble heroes of the war really were only teasing them.

Legolas squatted down before the children, as if about to return to the ball, but he suddenly paused.

'Really, my liege, that is most ungenerous of you. The ball belongs to them anyway, so clearly that is not an adequate reward. And that reminds me, I have been remiss in my duties towards someone else as well...' And before Aragorn had time to process the warning, Legolas had winked at the older boy, swivelled on his heel, and sent the ball sailing right over into Aragorn's face, leaving a glorious streak of mud along his cheek.

'Why you impertinent elfling!' Aragorn exclaimed, sending it right back in Legolas' direction. He was ready for this and ducked, meaning that Aragorn's shot hit one of the children instead. Aragorn froze in concern for a moment and began to apologise profusely…until the boy laughed and retaliated, giving him a streak of mud across the other cheek to match his first. And then,

And then…

* * *

When they looked back on that day later, none of them could quite figure out exactly how it happened. All they knew was that somehow, not long after that, they were all being introduced to the children's friends and accepted as honorary members of their crew, and Aragorn was explaining that when he wore his crown he was King Elessar, but when he didn't they had his special permission to call him 'Estel.' Things progressed quickly after that, and Aragorn found himself receiving an essential education in the wide variety of Gondorian street games facilitated by a pig's bladder; Legolas was looking quite the 'overgrown Gondorian street urchin', much to Gimli's delight, after a determined group of girls had wheedled him into letting them braid his hair; and Gimli had acquired a limpet in the form of the youngest child, who was quite determined in her attempts to bury herself completely beneath his beard. Soon enough, the various groups of children scattered among the ruined houses began to coalesce, and the whisper ran through them like wildfire: 'we're going to play Pelennor!' When this reached the ears of the children's guests, they exchanged uneasy glances, the wildly light-hearted mood that had cannoned into them with the children's ball dissipating just as quickly as it had come. They didn't want to bring down the joyful mood or reject the children's company after having been accepted in so warmly, but that day still held horrific memories for them all, even though the battle ended in triumph. Aragorn felt the eyes of his companions on him: they knew that he had suffered the greatest loss that day, and they were letting him call this decision. He closed his eyes and tried to think. One part of him instinctively rebelled: the thought that perhaps they were going to act out Halbarad's valiant death as entertainment sickened him, and he felt the urge to flee rather than witness that. But then he heard the deep, contemplative tones of his standard bearer and mentor speaking in his mind, saying, 'turn the battlefields into meadows, my lad.' He remembered the many times that he had visited Hal's home, and delighted his lieutenant's young children by joining in their games, impersonating trolls and orcs and on one memorable occasion, a giant spider, as their imaginary situations demanded. And he remembered that he had never seen Hal so contented as at those times when he would puff his pipe stretched out by the fire, amusement and sheer delight twinkling in his eyes as he watched 'Uncle Strider' tumble about with his children. And Aragorn knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that if Hal could have chosen a memorial, this would be it. He took a deep breath, nodded, grinned and turned to the children. 'I take it we're playing ourselves then?'

This was met with general protest. One of the girls stepped forward and explained very patiently and slowly, as if speaking to a fussy younger sibling, that they had already _had_ a turn being themselves and now they had to play nicely and let someone else have a go. Suitably chastened, and studiously not looking at each other lest they catch each other's eyes and dissolve into laughter, they submitted to the children's casting decisions. It was agreed that Legolas made a spectacularly evil Witchking, who was later skilfully taken down by three terrifying miniature Eowyns and two Merrys, a situation contrived to prevent a quarrel over who got 'the best parts.' And of course, their outrage that the Three Hunters were deemed decent parts but not the best was feigned…mostly. Gimli's role was taken care of when his new friend scrambled atop his shoulders and declared, 'you olifont. Me wider.' The Dwarf obliged with some impressive trumpeting sound effects, and that was that.

Aragorn's orc commander yielded with much dramatic snarling and growling to a team of Swan Knights just after the arrival of Rohan, so he retreated to the side-lines with the other 'dead' to watch the proceedings. So it was that he could watch the arrival of the Corsair ships (broken pieces of wooden signage, the children sitting atop them, being heaved along like sleds), and his miniature self charging into battle. And he couldn't look away from the boy holding a ragged end of cloth aloft, waving it proudly, fighting beside 'Aragorn,' with whom he was clearly friends. The standard bearer sent two orcs and Gimli's 'oliphaunt' into the 'dead zone,' before finally being surrounded and tackled to the ground. Aragorn had mentally braced himself for this, and it did not pain him to watch as much as he was expecting. He was, however, unprepared for the searing pang of grief that tore through him as 'Halbarad' scrambled up to his feet and ran cheerily across the battlefield to join the other dead. It only underlined with brutal poignancy that when his Hal was killed, he did not get back up. It took an almost inhuman effort to smile along with the others as 'Halbarad' started excitedly reliving his best moments from the battle to his friends. Aragorn didn't think his emotions could possibly be wrenched any more than they were, but as he listened to the boy's conclusion, he realised how wrong he was.

'Being Halbarad was so much fun! Even better than when I was Imrahil and I got to command the Swan Knights. Did you see how many I got before I died? I fought them all, even when I was surrounded, and never let go of the standard because I defended it with my life. Wasn't I valiant and loyal, Estel?'

His throat had clenched up so tightly he had no idea how he would bring himself to speak. But even through eyes swimming with tears he could see that a child was looking up at him for affirmation, and he was not going to confuse him with silence. He forced air into his unwilling lungs and managed to choke out the words, although when he did, he found he wasn't sure which Halbarad he was talking to.

'Aye. That you were. The best standard bearer I could have asked for.'

He tried fruitlessly to pull himself together and smile at the boy, but it was no use. All he could do was shut his eyes against the oncoming flood of tears and curse himself for bringing the sorrows of the real battle into the children's game of make-believe. He felt arms circling his waist, and his eyes shot open, releasing the tears he had been holding back, to see 'Halbarad' firmly embracing him around the middle. The other children had drawn away from them, for the most part, clamouring around the just-slain Woodelf Witchking. Aragorn was aware of Gimli hovering just behind him, ready to step in if Aragorn needed him.

'I'm sorry I made you sad,' the boy said, leaning his head penitently against Aragorn's side.

'Don't be sorry. I'm sorry I spoilt your game,' Aragorn tried to reassure him, but his voice still shook, traitorous thing, and the tears kept spilling over even as he swatted them away.

'You didn't spoil it, silly. We're in the dead zone so it doesn't matter. And it's alright to miss him,' the boy informed him matter-of-factly. 'I still miss my big brother. He died too, but he doesn't get a part when we play 'Pelennor.''

Those words twisted inside Aragorn like a knife as he realised just how many of his subjects would be mourning someone who didn't get a part in 'Pelennor,' someone whose name would never make it into songs or stories, someone who may never even be part of a number, whose only existence in the history of this extraordinary war would hover, elusive, behind the phrase 'grievous losses.' And the pressing desire to do something, anything at all to make this right gave him the urgency he needed to pull himself together as he squatted down to be at eye level with 'Halbarad' and gazed at him seriously.

'And that doesn't make his sacrifice any less than Halbarad's, understand? Your brother did a very brave and noble thing when he died in defence of his home, and it is because of him and all the others like him that we are both alive today. And it is a terrible sorrow that his name is not being honoured across the whole world, when this world would not be safe and free without him. Not all deeds of valour make it into the songs. Do you know that?'

'Halbarad' stared into the King's sorrowful, imploring eyes, not entirely sure what was being demanded of him. The boy couldn't understand what all the fuss was about.

'Course I know that,' he replied, as if Aragorn had just told him that apples grow on trees, 'And what does he need the whole world to honour him for? He's got me. And me Mam and Da.'

Aragorn blinked, stunned. Could it really be that simple? Was he tormenting himself over the fall into anonymity of thousands of soldiers, when in fact they were not anonymous in the only way that mattered- in the hearts of those they loved? Given the conversation earlier, he found himself wishing that Legolas and Gimli were hearing this too, glanced around and saw that fortuitously, Legolas had made his way over and they were both there. Their faces made it very clear both that they had heard and that they were feeling as Aragorn felt, strangely astonished at hearing a Gondorian nine-year-old voice the answer to their deepest fears.

'What do our fallen comrades need the honour of all future ages? They have us,' Legolas murmured in awe.

'And we will not let them down,' Gimli agreed quietly.

'Halbarad,' however, had missed this quiet exchange and was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot under the joint scrutiny of his new king and his famous brothers-in-arms.

'Well, it's true!' he defended himself. 'What would Andil- that's my brother- want with a lot of people he doesn't know singing about him? Where's the use in that? _We_ can remember him right, because we know him. Mam and Da don't do it properly, though. They keep talking like he never did anything wrong, but that's not true! He widdled in the cabbage patch when he came home drunk one night and Mam scolded him _forever,_ but no-one else talks about that anymore, so I think they're leaving it to me to remember that.'

That did it. Aragorn let out a bright peal of laughter, loud and free although it was still mingled with his tears, and opened his arms wide. Slightly startled, 'Halbarad' stepped into his sovereign's embrace.

'You're absolutely right,' Aragorn told him, 'you just keep remembering him as he was and that's the greatest honour you can give him. He's lucky to have you.'

It was clear that the boy thought his King had gone completely mad, and his baffled expression was the final straw for Legolas and Gimli, who simultaneously gave up the fight to contain their own laughter. 'Halbarad' shook his head, evidently concluding that these people may be heroes, but they were all clearly bonkers. He patted Aragorn on the back a few times and said, 'There, there, Estel. It's alright. Anyway, we all have to get ready now.'

'Ready for what?' Aragorn asked him, and 'Halbarad' pointed back to the battle.

'The best part!' he exclaimed.

'Aragorn' had found a convenient pile of rubble and was holding 'Anduril' (a stick) aloft in a very self-conscious heroic pose.

'I summon the army of the Dead! Join me in my noble to cause to free the great city of Minas Tirith!'

With a roar, all those in the 'dead zone' plunged back into the game and the Three Hunters were swept along with the tide.

'But…I dismissed the Dead after Pelargir,' Aragorn protested weakly, being tugged along by 'Halbarad.'

'Well, you shouldn't have done, they could have been useful!' the nine-year-old scolded him.

'Dramatic licence, laddie,' Gimli chipped in, running alongside him, 'just go with it.'

Aragorn shrugged, and did.

Hence, the Three Hunters had the slightly surreal experience of running into the fray after a miniature Aragorn, as members of the Army of the Dead. Aragorn was fairly certain that the Dead had not made 'woooo' noises, but he supposed that since they were adding an extra army to the battle of the Pelennor anyway, a little more dramatic licence couldn't hurt, and found himself 'woooooing' enthusiastically with the best of them.

And later, as they walked back to the palace, mud-spattered and laughing with an abandon they had not felt for a long time, the three of them finally accepted, deep in their hearts, the victory that came along with the grievous losses. The victory that was children still playing in the streets of Minas Tirith, turning the rubble into a court and the battle into game. The victory that was shopkeepers returning to the city that had so recently been a garrison, and passers-by feeling safe enough to stop and idly peruse their wares. The victory in the myriad tiny triumphs of ordinary, uncontrolled life, that Sauron had failed to destroy in his quest for domination.

Learning to believe in this victory, of course, did not mean that the sorrow of those grievous losses disappeared. They all thought of their fallen comrades, sometimes with a bittersweet pang at moments of joy that they wished their friends were alive to see. Aragorn thought of Halbarad, two years later, as he opened the first Spring Festival on the Pelennor and watched the horses galloping proudly across a battlefield that had become a meadow. Legolas thought of Aratur, Brondir and Thelion as he led the elves following him to Ithilien south through a wood that, despite its burn scars, now truly merited the name _Eryn Lasgalen._ And Gimli was nearly overwhelmed as, concentrating hard to stop his hands from shaking, he carved a motif from Orin's last sketches into the Minas Tirith gates.

None can know what awaits mortals outside the Circles of the World, and Mandos' Halls too remain mysterious to those who have not passed through them. So perhaps these visions were comforting fantasies to help the living survive their losses; or perhaps they truly were intimations of things to come. Nevertheless, on those occasions when their absent friends were most sorely missed, sometimes Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli would fancy they heard a familiar laugh on the wind, and a cherished voice whispering _we won._

 _And what we won was beautiful indeed._


End file.
